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SARACINESCA 



BY 


MARION CRAWFORD 


> i 


AUTHOR OF ‘ MR. ISAACS,’ * DR. CLAUDIUS,’ ‘ A ROMAN SINGER , 5 
‘ZOROASTER,’ ‘A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH,’ ETC. 


fkto fforft 

MACMILLAN AND CO. 
1893 


All rights reserved 



r 


COPYRIGHT 

1887 

BY 

F. MARION CRAWFORD 


First printed in 1887. 

New Uniform Edition set up and electrotyped A ng. 6 , i8qi. 
Reprinted October, iSq2 ; January, i8qj. 

Transferred trom 
Reading Room 

AUG 2 1943 


Nortoooli -press : 

J. S. Cushing & Co. — Berwick & Smith. 
Boston, Mass., U.S.A. 




•> /> 


> 

D 

1 « 
■*»> 


NOTE 


It was at first feared that the name Saracinesca, 
as it is now printed, might be attached to an unused 
title in the possession of a Roman house. The name 
was therefore printed with an additional consonant — 
“ Sarracinesca ” — in the pages of 4 Blackwood’s Maga- 
zine.’ After careful inquiry, the original spelling is 
now restored. 


Sorrento, March 1887. 























































* 














» 















* 



SARACINESCA. 


CHAPTER I. 

In the year 1865 Rome was still in a great measure its old 
self. It had not then acquired that modern air which is 
now beginning to pervade it. The Corso had not been 
widened and whitewashed ; the Villa Aldobrandini had 
not been cut through to make the Via Nazionale; the 
south wing of the Palazzo Colonna still looked upon a 
narrow lane through which men hesitated to pass after 
dark; the Tiber’s course had not then been corrected 
below the Farnesina ; the Farnesina itself was but just 
under repair; the iron bridge at the Ripetta was not 
dreamed of ; and the Prati di Castello were still, as their 
name implies, a series of waste meadows. At the southern 
extremity of the city, the space between the fountain of 
Moses and the newly erected railway station, running 
past the Baths of Diocletian, was still an exercising- 
ground for the French cavalry. Even the people in the 
streets then presented an appearance very different from 
that which is now observed by the visitors and foreigners 
who come to Rome in the winter. French dragoons and 
hussars, French infantry and French officers, were every- 
where to be seen in great numbers, mingled with a goodly 
sprinkling of the Papal Zouaves, whose grey Turco uni- 

A 


2 


SARACINESCA. 


forms with bright red facings, red sashes, and short 
yellow gaiters, gave colour to any crowd. A fine corps of 
men they were, too, counting hundreds of gentlemen in 
their ranks, and officered by some of the best blood in 
France and Austria. In those days also were to be seen 
the great coaches of the cardinals, with their gorgeous 
footmen and magnificent black horses, the huge red um- 
brellas lying upon the top, while from the open windows 
the stately princes of the Church from time to time re- 
turned the salutations of the pedestrians in the street. 
And often in the afternoon there was heard the tramp of 
horse as a detachment of the noble guards trotted down 
the Corso on their great chargers, escorting the holy 
Father himself, while all who met him dropped upon 
one knee and uncovered their heads to receive the bene- 
diction of the mild-eyed old man with the beautiful fea- 
tures, the head of Church and State. Many a time, too, 
Pius IX. would descend from his coach and walk upon 
the Pincio, all clothed in white, stopping sometimes to 
talk with those who accompanied him, or to lay his gen- 
tle hand on the fair curls of some little English child 
that paused from its play in awe and admiration as the 
Pope went by. For he loved children well, and most of 
all, children with golden hair — angels, not Angles, as 
Gregory said. 

As for the fashions of those days, it is probable that 
most of us would suffer severe penalties rather than re- 
turn to them, beautiful as they then appeared to us by 
contrast with the exaggerated crinoline and flower-garden 
bonnet, which had given way to the somewhat milder 
form of hoop-skirt madness, but had not yet flown to the 
opposite extreme in the invention of the close-fitting 
princesse garments of 1868. But, to each other, people 
looked then as they look now. Fashion in dress, concern- 
ing which nine-tenths of society gives itself so much 
trouble, appears to exercise less influence upon men and 
women in their relations towards each other than does any 
other product of human ingenuity. Provided every one is 


SARACIN ESC A. 


a 

in the fashion, everything goes on in the age of high heels 
and gowns tied back precisely as it did five-and-twenty 
years ago, when people wore flat shoes, and when gloves 
with three buttons had not been dreamed of — when a 
woman of most moderate dimensions occupied three or 
four square yards of space upon a ball-room floor, and 
men wore peg-top trousers. Human beings since the 
days of Adam seem to have retired like caterpillars into 
cocoons of dress, expecting constantly the wondrous hour 
when they shall emerge from their self-woven prison in 
the garb of the angelic butterfly, having entered into the 
chrysalis state as mere human grubs. But though they 
both toil and spin at their garments, and vie with Solo- 
mon in his glory to outshine the lily of the field, the 
humanity of the grub shows no signs of developing 
either in character or appearance in the direction of 
anything particularly angelic. 

It was not the dress of the period which gave to the 
streets of Home their distinctive feature. It would be 
hard to say, now that so much is changed, wherein the 
peculiar charm of the old-time city consisted ; but it was 
there, nevertheless, and made itself felt so distinctly 
beyond the charm of any other place, that the very fas- 
cination of Borne was proverbial. Perhaps no spot in 
Europe has ever possessed such an attractive individu- 
ality. In those days there were many foreigners, too, as 
there are to-day, both residents and visitors ; but they 
seemed to belong to a different class of humanity. They 
seemed less inharmonious to their surroundings then than 
now, less offensive to the general air of antiquity. Prob- 
ably they were more in earnest ; they came to Borne with 
the intention of liking the place, rather than of abusing 
the cookery in the hotels. They came with a certain 
knowledge of the history, the literature, and the man- 
ners of the ancients, derived from an education which in 
those days taught more through the classics and less 
through handy text-books and shallow treatises concern- 
ing the Benaissance ; they came with preconceived no- 


4 


SARACINESCA. 


tions which were often strongly dashed with old-fash- 
ioned prejudice, but which did not lack originality : they 
come now in the smattering mood, imbued with no genu- 
ine beliefs, but covered with exceeding thick varnish. Old 
gentlemen then visited the sights in the morning, and 
quoted Horace to each other, and in the evening endeav- 
oured by associating with Romans to understand some- 
thing of Rome ; young gentlemen now spend one or two 
mornings in finding fault with the architecture of Bra- 
mante, and “ in the evening,” like David’s enemies, 
“ they grin like a dog and run about the city : ” young 
women were content to find much beauty in the galleries 
and in the museums, and were simple enough to. admire 
what they liked; young ladies of the present day, can 
find nothing to admire except their own perspicacity in 
detecting faults in Raphael’s drawing or Michael Angelo’s 
colouring. This is the age of incompetent criticism in 
matters artistic, and no one is too ignorant to volunteer an 
opinion. It is sufficient to have visited half-a-dozen Ital- 
ian towns, and to have read a few pages of fashionable 
aesthetic literature — no other education is needed to fit 
the intelligent young critic for his easy task. The art of 
paradox can be learned in five minutes, and practised by 
any child ; it consists chiefly in taking two expressions 
of opinion from different authors, halving them, and unit- 
ing the first half of the one with the second half of the 
other.. The result is invariably startling, and generally 
incomprehensible. When a young society critic knows 
how to be startling and incomprehensible, his reputation 
is soon made, for people readily believe that what they 
cannot understand is profound, and anything which as- 
tonishes is agreeable to a taste deadened by a surfeit of 
spices. But in 1865 the taste of Europe was in a very 
different state. The Second Empire was in its glory. M. 
Emile Zola had not written his ‘ Assommoir.’ Count Bis- 
marck had only just brought to a successful termination 
the first part of his trimachy ; Sadowa and Sedan were 
yet unfought. Garibaldi had won Naples, and Cavour 


SARACINESCA. 


5 


had said, “If we did for ourselves what we are doing for 
Italy, we should be great scoundrels ; ” but Garibaldi had 
not yet failed at Mentana, nor had Austria ceded Venice. 
Cardinal Antonelli had yet ten years of life before him 
in which to maintain his gallant struggle for the remnant 
of the temporal power; Pius IX. was to live thirteen 
years longer, just long enough to outlive by one month 
the “ honest king,” Victor Emmanuel. Antonelli’s influ- 
ence pervaded Pome, and to a great extent all the Catho- 
lic Courts of Europe ; yet he was far from popular with 
the Romans. The Jesuits, however, were even less 
popular than he, and certainly received a much larger 
share of abuse. For the Romans love faction more than 
party, and understand it better ; so that popular opinion 
is too frequently represented by a transitory frenzy, vio- 
lent and pestilent while it lasts, utterly insignificant 
when it has s^ent its fury. 

But Rome in those days was peopled solely by Romans, 
whereas now a large proportion of the populatioAconsists 
of Italians from the north and south, who have been 
attracted to the capital by many interests — races as differ- 
ent from its former citizens as Germans or Spaniards, and 
unfortunately not disposed to show overmuch good-fellow- 
ship or loving-kindness to the original inhabitants. The 
Roman is a grumbler by nature, but he is also a “ peace- 
at-any-price ” man. Politicians and revolutionary agents 
have more than once been deceived by these traits, sup- 
posing that because the Roman grumbled he really desired 
change, but realising too late, when the change has been 
begun, that that same Roman is but a lukewarm partisan. 
The Papal Government repressed grumbling as a nuisance, 
and the people consequently took a delight in annoying 
the authorities by grumbling in secret places and calling 
themselves conspirators. The harmless • whispering of 
petty discontent was mistaken by the Italian party for the 
low thunder of a smothered volcano ; but, the change being 
brought about, the Italians find to their disgust that the 
Roman meant nothing by his murmurings, and that he 


6 


SAKACItfESCA. 


now not only still grumbles at everything, but takes the 
trouble to fight the Government at every point which con- 
cerns the internal management of the city. In the days 
before the change, a paternal Government directed the 
affairs of the little State ; and thought it best to remove 
all possibility of strife by giving the grumblers no voice in 
public or economic matters. The grumblers made a griev- 
ance of this ; and then, as soon as the grievance had been 
redressed, they redoubled their complaints and retrenched 
themselves within the infallibility of inaction, on the prin- 
ciple that men who persist in doing nothing cannot possibly 
do wrong. 

Those were the days, too, of the old school of artists — 
men who, if their powers of creation were not always pro- 
portioned to their ambition for excellence, were as superior 
to their more recent successors in their pure conceptions 
of what art should be as Apelles was to the Pompeian 
wall-painters, and as the Pompeians were to modern house- 
decorators. The age of Overbeck and the last religious 
painters was almost past, but the age of fashionable artis- 
tic debauchery had hardly begun. Water-colour was in 
its infancy ; wood-engraving was hardly yet a great pro- 
fession ; but the “ Dirty Boy ” had not yet taken a prize 
at Paris, nor had indecency become a fine art. The French 
school had not demonstrated the startling distinction be- 
tween the nude and the naked, nor had the English school 
dreamed nightmares of anatomical distortion. 

Darwin’s theories had been propagated, but had not yet 
been passed into law, and very few Romans had heard of 
them ; still less had any one been found to assert that the 
real truth of these theories would be soon demonstrated 
retrogressively by the rapid degeneration of men into apes, 
while apes would hereafter have cause to congratulate 
themselves upoti not having developed into men. Many 
theories also were then enjoying vast popularity which 
have since fallen low in the popular estimation. Prussia 
was still, in theory, a Power of the second class, and the 
empire of Louis Napoleon was supposed to possess ele- 


SARACINESCA. 


■ T 


ments of stability. The great civil war in the United 
States had just been fought, and people still doubted 
whether the republic would hold together. It is hard to 
recall the common beliefs of those times. A great part 
of the political creed of twenty years ago seems now a 
mass of idiotic superstition, in no wise preferable, as 
Macaulay would have said, to the Egyptian worship of 
cats and onions. Nevertheless, then, as now, men met 
together secretly in cellars and dens, as well as in draw- 
ing-rooms and clubs, and whispered together, and said 
their theories were worth something, and ought to be tried. 
The word republic possessed then, as now, a delicious 
attraction for people who had grievances ; and although, 
after the conquest of Naples, Garibaldi had made a sort of 
public abjuration of republican principles, so far as Italy 
was concerned, the plotters of all classes persisted in coup- 
ling his name with the idea of a commonwealth erected on 
the plan of “sois mon frere ou je te tue.” Profound 
silence on the part of Governments, and a still more 
guarded secrecy on the part of conspiring bodies, were 
practised as the very first principle of all political opera- 
tions. No copyist, at half-a-crown an hour, had yet be- 
trayed the English Foreign Office ; and it had not dawned 
upon the clouded intellects of European statesmen that 
deliberate national perjury, accompanied by public meet- 
ings of sovereigns, and much blare of many trumpets, 
could be practised with such triumphant success as events 
have since shown. In the beginning of the year .1865 
people crossed the Alps in carriages ; the Suez Canal had 
not been opened ; the first Atlantic cable was not laid ; 
German unity had not been invented ; Pius IX. reigned 
in the Pontifical States ; Louis Napoleon was the idol of 
the French ; President Lincoln had not been murdered, — 
is anything needed to widen the gulf which separates 
those times from these ? The difference between the 
States of the world in 1865 and in 1885 is nearly as 
great as that which divided the Europe of 1789 from the 
Europe of 1814. 


8 


SARACINESCA. 


But my business is with Borne, and not with Europe 
at large. I intend to tell the story of certain persons, of 
their good and bad fortune, their adventures, and the com- 
plications in which they found themselves placed during a 
period of about twenty years. The people of whom I tell 
this story are chiefly patricians ; and in the first part of 
their history they have very little to do with any but their 
own class — a class peculiar and almost unique in the world. 

Speaking broadly, there is no one at once so thoroughly 
Bom an and so thoroughly non-Boman as the Bom an noble. 
This is no paradox, no play on words. Boman nobles are 
Bom an by education and tradition ; by blood they are 
almost cosmopolitans. The practice of intermarrying with 
the great families of the rest of Europe is so general as 
to be almost a rule. One Boman prince is an English 
peer ; most of the Boman princes are grandees -of Spain ; 
many of them have married daughters of great French 
houses, of reigning German princes, of ex-kings and ex- 
queens. In one princely house alone are found the fol- 
lowing combinations : There are three brothers : the eldest 
married first the daughter of a great English peer, and 
secondly the daughter of an even greater peer of France ; 
the second brother married first a German “ serene high- 
ness,” and secondly the daughter of a great Hungarian 
noble ; the third brother married the daughter of a French 
house of royal Stuart descent. This is no solitary instance. 
A score of families might be cited who, by constant foreign 
marriages, have almost eliminated from their blood the 
original Italian element ; and this great intermixture of 
races may account for the strangely un-Italian types that 
are found among them, for the undying vitality which 
seems to animate races already a thousand years old, and 
above all, for a very remarkable cosmopolitanism which 
pervades Boman society. A set of people whose near re- 
lations are socially prominent in every capital of Europe, 
could hardly be expected to have anything provincial about 
them in appearance or manners ; still less can they be con- 
sidered to be types of their own nation. And yet such is 


SARACINESCA. 


9 


the force of tradition, of the patriarchal family life, of the 
early surroundings in which are placed these children of 
a mixed race, that they acquire from their earliest years 
the unmistakable outward manner of Romans, the broad 
Roman speech, and a sort of clannish and federative spirit, 
which has not its like in the same class anywhere in 
Europe. They grow up together, go to school together, go 
together into the world, and together discuss all the social 
affairs of their native city. Not a house is bought or sold, 
not a hundred francs won at 4cart6, not a marriage con- 
tract made, without being duly considered and commented 
upon by the whole of society. And yet, though there is 
much gossip, there is little scandal ; there was even less 
twenty years ago than there is now — not, perhaps, be- 
cause the increment of people attracted to the new capi- 
tal have had any bad influence, but simply because the 
city has grown much larger, and in some respects has out- 
grown a certain simplicity of manners it once possessed, 
and which was its chief safeguard. For, in spite of a 
vast number of writers of all nations who have at- 
tempted to describe Italian life, and who, from an imper- 
fect acquaintance with the people, have fallen into the 
error of supposing them to live perpetually in a highly 
complicated state of mind, the foundation of the Italian 
character is simple — far more so than that of his heredi- 
tary antagonist, the northern European. It is enough to 
notice that the Italian habitually expresses what he feels, 
while it is the chief pride of Northern men that what- 
ever they may feel they express nothing. The chief ob- 
ject of most Italians is to make life agreeable ; the chief 
object of the Teutonic races is to make it profitable. 
Hence the Italian excels in the art of pleasing, and in 
pleasing by means of the arts ; whereas the Northern 
man is pre-eminent in the faculty of producing wealth 
under any circumstances, and when he has amassed 
enough possessions to' think of enjoying his leisure, has 
generally been under the necessity of employing South- 
ern art as a means to that end. But Southern simplicity 


10 


SARACINESCA. 


carried to its ultimate expression leads not uncommonly 
to startling results ; for it is not generally a satisfaction 
to an Italian to be paid a sum of money as damages for 
an injury done. When his enemy has harmed him, he 
desires the simple retribution afforded by putting his 
enemy to death, and he frequently exacts it by any 
means that he finds ready to his hand. Being simple, he 
reflects little, and often acts with violence. The North- 
ern mind, capable of vast intricacy of thought, seeks to 
combine revenge of injury with personal profit, and in a 
spirit of cold, far-sighted calculation, reckons up the ad- 
vantages to be got by sacrificing an innate desire for 
blood to a civilised greed of money. 

Dr Johnson would have liked the Romans — for in gen- 
eral they are good lovers and good haters, whatever faults 
they may have. The patriarchal system, which was all 
but universal twenty years ago, and is only now beginning 
to yield to more modern institutions of life, tends to foster 
the passions of love and hate. Where father and mother 
sit at the head and foot of the table, their sons with their 
wives and their children each in his or her place, often to 
the number of twenty souls — all living under one roof, one 
name, and one bond of family unity — there is likely to be 
a great similarity of feeling upon all questions of family 
pride, especially among people who discuss everything with 
vehemence, from European politics to the family cook. 
They may bicker an! squabble among themselves, — and 
they frequently do, — but in their outward relations with 
the world they act as one individual, and the enemy of one 
is the enemy of all ; for the pride of race and name is very 
great. There is a family in Rome who, since the memory 
of man, have not failed to dine together twice every week, 
and there are now more than thirty persons who take their 
places at the patriarchal board. No excuse can be pleaded 
for absence, and no one would think of violating the rule. 
Whether such a mode of life is good or not is a matter of 
opinion ; it is, at all events, a fact, and one not generally 
understood or even known by persons who make studies 


SARACINESCA. 


11 


of Italian character. Free and constant discussion of all 
manner of topics should certainly tend to widen the intel- 
ligence ; but, on the other hand, where the dialecticians 
are all of one race, and name, and blood, the practice 
may often merely lead to an undue development of pre- 
judice. In Rome, particularly, where so many families 
take a distinct character from the influence of a foreign 
mother, the opinions of a house are associated with its 
mere name. Casa Borghese thinks so and so, Casa Colonna 
has diametrically opposite views, while Casa Altieri may 
differ wholly from both; and in connection with most 
subjects the mere names Borghese, Altieri, Colonna are 
associated in the minds of Romans of all classes with 
distinct sets of principles and ideas, with distinct types 
of character, and with distinctly different outward and 
visible signs of race. Some of these conditions exist 
among the nobility of other countries, but not, I believe, 
to the same extent. In Germany, the aristocratic body 
takes a certain uniform hue, so to speak, from the army, 
in which it plays so important a part, and the patriarchal 
system is broken up by the long absences from the 
ancestral home of the soldier-sons. In France, the main 
divisions of republicans, monarchists, and imperialists 
have absorbed and unified the ideas and principles of 
large bodies of families into bodies politic. In England, 
the practice of allowing younger sous to shift for them- 
selves, and the division of the whole aristocracy into 
two main political parties, destroy the patriarchal spirit; 
while it must also be remembered, that at a period when 
in Italy the hand of every house was against its neigh- 
bour, and the struggles of Guelph and Ghibelline were 
but an excuse for the prosecution of private feuds, Eng- 
land was engaged in great wars which enlisted vast 
bodies of men under a common standard for a common 
principle. Whether the . principle involved chanced to 
be that of English domination in France, or whether 
men flocked to the standards of the White Rose of York 
or the Red Rose of Lancaster, was of little importance ; 


12 


SAKACINESCA. 


the result was the same, — the tendency of powerful 
families to maintain internecine traditional feuds was 
stamped out, or rather was absorbed in the maintenance 
of the perpetual feud between the great principles of 
Tory and Whig — of the party for the absolute monarch, 
and the party for the freedom of the people. 

Be the causes what they may, the Eoman nobility has 
many characteristics peculiar to it and to no other aris- 
tocracy. It is cosmopolitan by its foreign marriages, re- 
newed in every generation ; it is patriarchal and feudal 
by its own unbroken traditions of family life ; and it is 
only essentially Boman by its speech and social customs. 
It has undergone great vicissitudes during twenty years ; 
but most of these features remain in spite of new and 
larger parties, new and bitter political hatreds, new ideas 
of domestic life, and new fashions in dress and cookery. 

In considering an account of the life of Giovanni Sara- 
cinesca from the time when, in 1865, he was thirty years 
of age, down to the present day, it is therefore just that he 
should be judged with a knowledge of some of these pecu- 
liarities of his class. He is not a Boman of the people 
like Giovanni Cardegna, the great tenor, and few of his 
ideas have any connection with those of the singer ; but 
he has, in common with him, that singular simplicity of 
character which he derives from his Boman descent upon 
the male side, and in which will be found the key to many 
of his actions both good and bad — a simplicity which loves 
peace, but cannot always refrain from sudden violence, 
which loves and hates strongly and to some purpose. 


CHAPTER II. 

The hour was six o’clock, and the rooms of the Embassy 
were as full as they were likely to be that day. There 
would doubtless have been more people had the weather 


SARACINESCA. 


IB 


been fine ; but it was raining heavily, and below, in the 
vast court that formed the centre of the palace, the lamps 
of fifty carriages gleamed through the water and the dark- 
ness, and the coachmen, of all dimensions and characters, 
sat beneath their huge umbrellas and growled to each 
other, envying the lot of the footmen who were congre- 
gated in the ante-chamber up-stairs around the great 
bronze braziers. But in the reception-rooms there was 
much light and warmth; there were bright fires and 
softly shaded lamps ; velvet - footed servants stealing 
softly among the guests, with immense burdens of tea 
and cake ; men of more or less celebrity chatting about 
politics in corners ; women of more or less beauty gossip- 
ing over their tea, or flirting, or wishing they had some- 
body to flirt with ; people of many nations and ideas, with 
a goodly leaven of Romans. They all seemed endeavour- 
ing to get away from the men and women of their own 
nationality, in order to amuse themselves with the dif- 
ficulties of conversation in languages not their own. 
Whether they amused themselves or not is of small im- 
portance ; but as they were all willing to find themselves 
together twice a-day for the five months of the Roman 
season — from the first improvised dance before Christ- 
mas, to the last set ball in the warm April weather after 
Easter — it may be argued that they did not dislike each 
other’s society. In case the afternoon should seem dulh 
his Excellency had engaged the services of Signor Stril- 
lone, the singer. Erom time to time he struck a few 
chords upon the grand piano, and gave forth a song of his 
own composition in loud and passionate tones, varied with 
very sudden effects of extreme pianissimo, which occa- 
sionally surprised some one who was trying to make his 
conversation heard above the music. 

There was a little knot of people standing about the 
door of the great drawing-room. Some of them were 
watching their opportunity to slip away unperceived; 
others had just arrived, and were making a survey of the 
scene to ascertain the exact position of their Excellencies, 


14 


SARACINESCA. 


and of the persons they most desired to avoid, before com- 
ing forward. Suddenly, just as Signor Strillone had 
reached a high note and was preparing to bellow upon it 
before letting his voice die away to a pathetic falsetto, the 
crowd at the door parted a little. A lady entered the 
room alone, and stood out before the rest, pausing till 
the singer should have passed the climax of his song, be- 
fore she proceeded upon her way. She was a very striking 
woman ; every one knew who she was, every one looked 
towards her, and the little murmur that went round the 
room was due to her entrance rather than to Signor 
Strillone’s high note. 

The Duchessa d’Astrardente stood still, and quietly 
looked about her. A minister, two secretaries, and three 
or four princes sprang towards her, each with a chair in 
hand ; but she declined each offer, nodding to one, thank- 
ing another by name, and exchanging a few words with a 
third. She would not sit down ; she had not yet spoken 
to the ambassadress. 

Two men followed her closely as she crossed the room 
when the song was finished. One was a fair man of five- 
and-thirty, rather stout, and elaborately dressed. He trod 
softly and carried his hat behind him, while he leaned a 
little forward in his walk. There was something unpleas- 
ant about his face, caused perhaps by his pale complexion 
and almost colourless moustache ; his blue eyes were small 
and near together, and had a watery, undecided look ; his 
thin fair hair was parted in the middle over his low fore- 
head ; there was a scornful look about his mouth, though 
half concealed by the moustache ; and his chin retreated 
rather abruptly from his lower lip. On the“other hand, he 
was dressed with extreme care, and his manner showed no 
small confidence in himself as he pushed forwards, keep- 
ing as close as he could to the Duchessa. He had the air 
of being thoroughly at home in his surroundings. 

Ugo del Fence was indeed rarely disconcerted, and his 
self-reliance was most probably one chief cause of his suc- 
cess. He was a man who performed the daily miracle of 


SARACINESCA. 


15 


creating everything for himself out of nothing. His father 
had barely been considered a member of the lower nobil- 
ity, although he always called himself “dei conti del 
Ferice” — of the family of the counts of his name; but 
where or when the Conti del Ferice had lived, was a ques- 
tion he never was able to answer satisfactorily. He had 
made a little money, and had squandered most of it be- 
fore he died, leaving the small remainder to his only son, 
who had spent every scudo of it in the first year. But to 
make up for the exiguity of his financial resources, Ugo 
had from his youth obtained social success. He had be- 
gun life by boldly calling himself “ II conte del Ferice.” 
Ho one had ever thought it worth while to dispute him 
the title ; and as he had hitherto not succeeded in confer- 
ring it upon any dowered damsel, the question of his 
countship was left unchallenged. He had made many ac- 
quaintances- in the college where he had been educated ; 
for his father had paid for his schooling in the Collegio 
dei Hobili, and that in itself was a passport — for as the 
lad grew to the young man, he zealously cultivated the 
society of his old school-fellows, and by wisely avoiding 
all other company, acquired a right to be considered one 
of themselves. He was very civil and obliging in his 
youth, and had in that way acquired a certain reputation 
for being indispensable, which had stood him in good stead. 
Ho one asked whether he had paid his tailor’s bill; or 
whether upon certain conditions, his tailor supplied him 
with raiment gratis. He was always elaborately dressed, 
he was always ready to take a hand at cards, and he was 
always invited to every party in the season. He had 
cultivated with success the science of amusing, and 
people asked him to dinner in the winter, and to their 
country houses in the summer. He had been seen in 
Paris, and was often seen at Monte Carlo ; but his real 
home and hunting-ground was Kome, where he knew 
every one and every one knew him. He had made one 
or two fruitless attempts to marry young women of 
American extraction and large fortune ; he had not sue- 


16 


SARACINESCA. 


ceeded in satisfying the paternal mind in regard to 
guarantees, and had consequently been worsted in his 
endeavours. Last summer, however, it appeared that he 
had been favoured with an increase of fortune. He gave 
out that an old uncle of his, who had settled in the south 
of Italy, had died, leaving him a modest competence; 
and while assuming a narrow band of cr&pe upon his hat, 
he had adopted also a somewhat more luxurious mode of 
living. Instead of going about on foot, or in cabs, he 
kept a very small coupe, with a very small horse and a 
diminutive coachman : the whole turn-out was very quiet 
in appearance, but very serviceable withal. Ugo some- 
times wore too much jewellery ; but his bad taste, if so 
it could be called, did not extend to the modest equipage. 
People accepted the story of the deceased uncle, and con- 
gratulated Ugo, whose pale face assumed on such occa- 
sions a somewhat deprecating smile. “A few scudi,” 
he would answer — “ a very small competence ; but what 
would you have ? I need so little — it is enough for me.” 
Nevertheless people who knew him well warned him that 
he was growing stout. 

The other man who followed the Duchessa d’Astrardente 
across the drawing-room was of a different type. Don 
Giovanni Saracinesca was neither very tall nor remark- 
ably handsome, though in the matter of his beauty opinion 
varied greatly. He was very dark — almost as dark for a 
man as the Duchessa was for a woman. He was strongly 
built, but very lean, and his features stood out in bold and 
sharp relief from the setting of his short black hair and 
pointed beard. His nose was perhaps a little large for his 
face, and the unusual brilliancy of his eyes gave him an 
expression of restless energy ; there was something noble 
in the shaping of his high square forehead and in the turn 
of his sinewy throat. His hands were broad and brown, 
but nervous and well knit, with straight long fingers and 
squarely cut nails. Many women said Don Giovanni was 
the handsomest man in Rome ; others said he was too 
dark or too thin, and that his face was hard and his 


SARACINESCA. 


17 


features ugly. There was a great difference of opinion 
in regard to his appearance. Don Giovanni was not 
married, but there were few marriageable women in Rome 
who would not have been overjoyed to become his wife. 
But hitherto he had hesitated — or, to speak more accu- 
rately, he had not hesitated at all in his celibacy. His 
conduct in refusing to marry had elicited much criticism, 
little of which had reached his ears. He cared not much 
for what his friends said to him, and not at all for the 
opinion of the world at large, in consequence of which 
state of mind people often said he was selfish— a view 
taken extensively by elderly princesses with unmarried 
daughters, and even by Don Giovanni’s father and only 
near relation, the old Prince Saracinesca, who earnestly 
desired to see his name perpetuated. Indeed Giovanni 
would have made a good husband, for he was honest and 
constant by nature, courteous by disposition, and con- 
siderate by habit and experience. His reputation for 
wildness rested rather upon his taste for dangerous 
amusements than upon such scandalous adventures as 
made up the lives of many of his contemporaries. But 
to all matrimonial proposals he answered that he was 
barely thirty years of age, that he had plenty of time 
before him, that he had not yet seen the woman whom 
he would be willing to marry, and that he intended to 
please himself. 

The Duchessa d’Astrardente made her speech to her 
hostess and passed on, still followed by the two men ; 
but they now approached her, one on -each side, and 
endeavoured to engage her attention. Apparently she 
intended to be impartial, for she sat down in the middle 
one of three chairs, and motioned to her two compan- 
ions to seat themselves also, which they immediately 
did, whereby they became for the moment the two most 
important men in the room. 

Corona d’Astrardente was a very dark woman. In all 
the Southern land there were no eyes so black as hers, 
no cheeks of such a warm dark-olive tint, no tresses of 

B 


18 


SARACINESCA. 


such raven hue. But if she was not fair, she was very 
beautiful ; there was a delicacy in her regular features 
that artists said was matchless ; her mouth, not small, but 
generous and nobly cut, showed perhaps more strength, 
more even determination, than most men like to see in 
women’s faces ; but in the exquisitely moulded nostrils 
there lurked much sensitiveness and the expression of 
much courage ; and the level brow and straight-cut nose 
were in their clearness as an earnest of the noble thoughts 
that were within, and that so often spoke from the depths 
of her splendid eyes. She was not a scornful beauty, 
though her face could express scorn well enough. Where 
another woman would have shown disdain, she needed 
but to look grave, and her silence did the rest. She 
wielded magnificent weapons, and wielded them nobly, 
as she did all things. She needed all her strength, too, 
for her position from the first was not easy. She had 
few troubles, but they were great ones, and she bore 
them bravely. 

One may well ask why Corona del Carmine had mar- 
ried the old man who was her husband — the broken-down 
and worn-out dandy of sixty, whose career was so well 
known, and whose doings had been as scandalous as his 
ancient name was famous in the history of his country. 
Her marriage was in itself almost a tragedy. It mat- 
ters little to know how it came about ; she accepted As- 
trardente with his dukedom, his great wealth, and his 
evil past, on the day when she left the convent where 
she had been educated ; she did it to save her father 
from ruin, almost from starvation ; she was seventeen 
years of age ; she was told that the world was bad, and 
she resolved to begin her life by a heroic sacrifice ; she 
took the step heroically, and no human being had ever 
heard her complain. Five years had elapsed since then, 
and her father — for whom she had given all she had, her- 
self, her beauty, her brave heart, and her hopes of happi- 
ness — her old father, whom she so loved, was dead, the 
last of his race, saving only this beautiful but childless 


SARACIKESCA. 


19 


daughter. What she suffered now — whether she suffered 
at all — no man knew. There had been a wild burst of 
enthusiasm when she appeared first in society, a univer- 
sal cry that it was a sin and a shame. But the cynics 
who had said she would console herself had been obliged 
to own their worldly wisdom at faillt ; the men of all 
sorts who had lost their hearts to her were ignominiously 
driven in course of time to find them again elsewhere. 
Amid all the excitement of the first two years of her life 
in the world, Corona had moved calmly upon her way, 
wrapped in the perfect dignity of her character ; and the 
old Duca d’Astrardente had smiled and played with the 
curled locks of his wonderful wig, and had told every 
one that his wife was the one woman in the universe who 
was above suspicion. People had laughed incredulously 
at first ; but as time wore on they held their peace, tacitly 
acknowledging that the aged fop was right as usual, but 
swearing in their hearts that it was the shame of shames ' 
to see the noblest woman in their midst tied to such a 
wretched remnant of dissipated humanity as the Duca 
d’Astrardente. Corona went everywhere, like . other 
people ; she received in her own house a vast number of 
acquaintances ; there were a few friends who came and 
went much as they pleased, and some of them were 
young; but there was never a breath of scandal breathed 
about the Duchessa. She was indeed above suspicion. 

She sat now between two men who were evidently 
anxious to please her. The position was not new ; she 
was, as usual, to talk to both, and yet to show no prefer- 
ence for either. And yet she had a preference, and in her 
heart she knew it was a strong one. It was by no means 
indifferent to her which of those two men left her side 
and which remained. She was above suspicion — yes, 
above the suspicion of any human being besides herself, 
as she had been for five long years. She knew that had 
her husband entered the room and passed that way, he 
would have nodded to Giovanni Saracinesca as carelessly 
as though Giovanni had been his wife’s brother — as care- 


20 


SARAC1NESCA. 


lessly as he would have noticed Ugo del Ferice upon her 
other side. But in her own heart she knew that there 
was but one face in all Rome she loved to see, but one 
voice she loved, and dreaded too, for it had the power to 
make her life seem unreal, till she wondered how long it 
would last, and whether there would ever be any change. 
The difference between Giovanni and other men had 
always been apparent. Others would sit beside her and 
make conversation, and then occasionally would make 
speeches she did not care to hear, would talk to her of 
love — some praising it as the only thing worth living for, 
some with affected cynicism scoffing at it as the greatest 
of unrealities, contradicting themselves a moment later 
in some passionate declaration to herself. When they 
were foolish, she laughed at them ; when they went too 
far, she quietly rose and left them. Such experiences 
had grown rare of late, for she had earned the reputation 
of being cold and unmoved, and that protected her. But 
Giovanni had never talked like the rest of them. He 
never mentioned the old, worn subjects that the others 
harped upon. She would not have found it easy to say 
what he talked about, for he talked indifferently about 
many subjects. She was not sure whether he spent more 
time with her when in society than with other women ; 
she reflected that he was not so brilliant as many men she 
knew, not so talkative as the majority of men she met ; 
she knew only — and it was the thing she most bitterly 
reproached herself with — that she preferred his face 
above all other faces, and his voice beyond all voices. It 
never entered her head to think that she loved him ; it 
was bad enough in her simple creed that there should be 
any man whom she would rather see than not, and whom 
she missed when he did not approach her. She was a 
very strong and loyal woman, who had sacrificed herself 
to a man who knew the world very thoroughly, who in 
the thoroughness of his knowledge was able to see that 
the world is not all bad, and who, in spite of all his evil 
deeds, was proud of his wife’s loyalty. Astrardente had 


SARACINESCA. 


21 


made a bargain when he married Corona ; but he was a 
wise man in his generation, and he knew and valued her 
when he had got her. He knew the precise dangers to 
which she was exposed, and he was not so cruel as to 
expose her to them willingly. He had at first watched 
keenly the effect produced upon her by conversing with 
men of all sorts in the world, and among others he had 
noticed Giovanni ; but he had come to the conclusion 
that his wife was equal to any situation in which she 
might be placed. Moreover, Giovanni was not an habitue 
at the Palazzo Astrardente, and showed none -of the usual 
signs of anxiety to please the Duchessa. 

From the time when Corona began to notice her own 
predilection for Saracinesca, she had been angry with her- 
self for it, and she tried to avoid him ; at all events, she 
gave him no idea that she liked him especially. Her hus- 
band, who at first had delivered many lectures on the sub- 
ject of behaviour in the world, had especially warned her 
against showing any marked coldness to a man she wished 
to shun. “Men,” said he, “are accustomed to that; they 
regard it as the first indication that a woman is really in- 
terested ; when you want to get rid of a man, treat him sys- 
tematically as you treat everybody, and he will be wounded 
at your indifference and go away.” But Giovanni did not 
go, and Corona began to wonder whether she ought not 
to do something to break the interest she felt in him. 

At the present moment she wanted a cup of tea. She 
would have liked to send Ugo del Ferice for it ; she did 
what she thought least pleasant to herself, and she sent 
Giovanni. The servants wha were serving the refresh- 
ments had all left the room, and Saracinesca went in pur- 
suit of them. As soon as he was gone Del Ferice spoke. 
His voice was soft, and had an insinuating tone in it. 

“They are saying that Don Giovanni is to be married,” 
he remarked, watching the Duchessa from the corners of 
his eyes as he indifferently delivered himself of his news. 

The Duchessa was too dark a woman to show emotion 
easily. Perhaps she did not believe the story ; her eyes 


22 


SARACINESCA. 


fixed themselves on some distant object in the room, as 
though she were intensely interested in something she 
saw, and she paused before she answered. 

“ That is news indeed, if it is true. And whom is he 
going to marry ? ” 

“ Donna Tullia Mayer, the widow of the financier. 
She is immensely rich, and is some kind of cousin of the 
Saracinesca.” 

“How strange !” exclaimed Corona. “I was just look- 
ing at her. Is not that she over there, with the green 
feathers ? ” 

“ Yes,” answered Del Ferice, looking in the direction 
the Duchessa' indicated. “ That is she. One may know 
her at a vast distance by her dress. But it is not all 
settled yet.” 

“ Then one cannot congratulate Don Giovanni to- 
day ? ” asked the Duchessa, facing her interlocutor 
rather suddenly. 

“No,” he answered; “it is perhaps better not to speak 
to him about it.” 

“It is as well that you warned me, for I would cer- 
tainly have spoken.” 

“I do not imagine that Saracinesca likes to talk of his 
affairs of the heart,” said Del Ferice, with considerable 
gravity. “ But here he comes. I had hoped he would 
have taken even longer to get that cup of tea.” 

“ It was long enough for you to tell your news,” an- 
swered Corona quietly, as Don Giovanni came up. 

“ What is the news ? ” asked he, as he sat down beside 
her. 

“Only an engagement that is not yet announced,” 
answered the Duchessa. “Del Ferice has the secret; 
perhaps he will tell you.” 

Giovanni glanced across her at the fair pale man, whose 
fat face, however, expressed nothing. Seeing he was not 
enlightened, Saracinesca civilly turned the subject. 

“ Are you going to the meet to-morrow, Duchessa ? ” he 
asked. 


SARACINESCA. 


23 


“ That depends upon the weather and upon the Duke / 5 
she answered. “ Are you going to follow ? 55 

“Of course. What a pity it is that you do not ride ! 55 

“It seems such an unnatural thing to see a woman 
hunting , 55 remarked Del Ferice, who remembered to have 
heard the Duchessa say something of the kind, and was 
consequently sure that she would agree with him. 

“ You do not ride yourself , 55 said Don Giovanni, shortly. 
“ That is the reason you do not approve of it for ladies . 55 

“I am not rich enough to hunt , 55 said Ugo, modestly. 
“ Besides, the other reason is a good one ; for when ladies 
hunt I am deprived of their society . 55 

The Duchessa laughed slightly. She never felt less 
like laughing in her life, and yet it was necessary to 
encourage the conversation. Giovanni did not abandon 
the subject. 

“It will be a beautiful meet , 55 he said. “Many people 
are going out for the first time this year. There is a man 
here who has brought his horses from England. I forget 
his name — a rich Englishman . 55 

“ I have met him , 55 said Del Ferice, who was proud of 
knowing everybody. “He is a type — enormously rich 
— a lord — I cannot pronounce his name — not married 
either. He will make a sensation in society. He won 
races in Paris last year, and they say he will enter one of 
his hunters for the steeplechases here at Easter . 55 

“ That is a great inducement to go to the meet, to see 
this Englishman , 55 said the Duchessa rather wearily, as 
she leaned back in her chair. Giovanni was silent, but 
showed no intention of going. Del Ferice, with an equal 
determination to stay, chattered vivaciously. 

“Don Giovanni is quite right , 55 he continued. “ Every 
one is going. There will be two or three drags. Madame 
Mayer has induced Yaldarno to have out his four-in-hand, 
and to take her and a large party . 55 

The Duchessa did not hear the remainder of Del Fence’s 
speech, for at the mention of Donna Tullia — now com- 
monly called Madame Mayer — she instinctively turned 


24 


SARACTNESCA. 


and looked at Giovanni. He, too, had caught the name, 
though he was not listening in the least to Ugo’s chatter; 
and as he met Corona’s eyes he moved uneasily, as much 
as to say he wished the fellow would stop talking. A 
moment later Del Ferice rose from his seat ; he had seen 
Donna Tullia passing near, and thought the opportunity 
favourable for obtaining an invitation to join the party 
on the drag. With a murmured excuse which Corona did 
not hear, he went in pursuit of his game. 

“ I thought he was never going,” said Giovanni, moodily. 
He was not in the habit of posing as the rival of any one 
who happened to be talking to the Duchessa. He had 
never said anything of the kind before, and Corona ex- 
perienced a new sensation, not altogether unpleasant. She 
looked at him in some surprise. 

“ Do you not like Del Ferice ? ” she inquired, gravely. 

“ Do you like him yourself ? ” he asked in reply. 

“ What a question ! Why should I like or dislike any 
one ? ” There was perhaps the smallest shade of bitter- 
ness in her voice as she asked the question she had so 
often asked herself. Why should she like Giovanni 
Saracinesca, for instance ? 

“ I do not know what the world would be like if we 
had no likes and dislikes,” said Giovanni, suddenly. “ It 
would be a poor place ; perhaps it is only a poor place at 
best. I merely wondered whether Del Ferice amused you 
as he amuses everybody.” 

“Well then, frankly, he has not amused me to-day,” 
answered Corona, with a smile. 

“ Then you are glad he is gone ? ” 

“ I do not regret it.” 

“Duchessa,” said Giovanni, suddenly changing his 
position, “I am glad he is gone, because I want to ask 
you a question. Do I know you well enough to ask you 
a question ? ” 

“ It depends ” Corona felt the blood rise suddenly 

to her dark forehead. Her hands burned intensely in her 
gloves. The anticipation of something she had never 


SARACINESCA. 25 

heard made her heart beat uncontrollably in her 
breast. 

“ It is only about myself,” continued Giovanni, in low 
tones. He had seen the blush, so rare a sight that there 
was not another man in Rome who had seen it. He had 
not time to think what it meant. “ It is only about my- 
self,” he went on. “ My father wants me to marry ; he 
insists that I should marry Donna Tullia — Madame 
Mayer.” 

“ Well ? ” asked Corona. She shivered ; a moment be- 
fore, she had been oppressed with the heat. Her mono- 
syllabic question was low and indistinct. She wondered 
whether Giovanni could hear the beatings of her heart, so 
slow, so loud they almost deafened her. 

“ Simply this. Do you advise me to marry her ? ” 

“ Why do you ask me, of all people ? ” asked Corona, 
faintly. 

“I would like to have your advice,” said Giovanni, 
twisting his brown hands together and fixing his bright 
eyes upon her face. 

“She is young yet. She is handsome — she is fabu- 
lously rich. Why should you not marry her ? Would 
she make you happy ? ” 

“ Happy ? Happy with her ? Ho indeed. Do you think 
life would be bearable with such a woman ? ” 

“ I do not know. Many men would marry her if they 
could ” 

“ Then you think I should ? ” asked Giovanni. Corona 
hesitated ; she could not understand why she should care, 
and yet she was conscious that there had been no such 
struggle in her life since the day she had blindly resolved 
to sacrifice herself to her father’s wishes in accepting 
Astrardente. Still there could be no doubt what she 
should say : how could she advise any one to marry with- 
out the prospect of the happiness she had never had ? 

“ Will you not give me your counsel ? ” repeated Sara- 
cinesca. He had grown very pale, and spoke with such 
earnestness that Corona hesitated no longer. 


26 


SARACINESCA. 


“ I would certainly advise you to think no more about 
it, if you are sure that you cannot be happy with her.” 

Giovanni drew a long breath, the blood returned to his 
face, and his hands unlocked themselves. 

“ I will think no more about it,” he said. “ Heaven 
bless you for your advice, Duchessa ! ” 

“ Heaven grant I have advised you well ! ” said Co- 
rona, almost inaudibly. “ How cold this house is ! 
Will you put down my cup of tea ? Let us go near the 
fire ; Strillone is going to sing again.” 

“I would like him to sing a ‘Nunc dimittis, Domine,’ 
for me,” murmured Giovanni, whose eyes were filled with 
a strange light. 

Half an hour later Corona d’ Astrardente went down the 
steps of the Embassy wrapped in her furs and preceded 
by her footman. As she reached the bottom Giovanni 
Saracinesca came swiftly down and joined her as her car- 
riage drove up out of the dark courtyard. The footman 
opened the door, but Giovanni put out his hand to help 
Corona to mount the step. She laid her small gloved 
fingers upon the sleeve of his overcoat, and as she sprang 
lightly in she thought his arm trembled. 

“ Good night, Duchessa ; I am very grateful to you,” he 
said. 

“ Good night ; why should you be grateful ? ” she 
asked, almost sadly. 

Giovanni did not answer, but stood hat in hand as the 
great carriage rolled out under the arch. Then he but- 
toned his greatcoat, and went out alone into the dark and 
muddy streets. The rai'n had ceased, but everything was 
wet, and the broad pavements gleamed under the uncer- 
tain light of the flickering gas-lamps. 


SARACINESCA. 


27 


CHAPTER III. 

The palace of the Saracinesca is in an ancient quarter 
of Rome, far removed from the broad white streets of 
mushroom dwelling-houses and machine-laid macadam; 
far from the foreigners’ region, the varnish of the fash- 
ionable shops, the whirl of brilliant equipages, and the 
scream of the newsvendor. The vast irregular buildings 
are built around three courtyards, and face on all sides 
upon narrow streets. The first sixteen feet, up to the 
heavily ironed windows of the lower storey, consist of 
great blocks of stone, worn at the corners and scored 
along their length by the battering of ages, by the heavy 
carts that from time immemorial have found the way too 
narrow and have ground their iron axles against the mas- 
sive masonry. Of the three enormous arched gates that 
give access to the interior from different sides, one is 
closed by an iron grating, another by huge doors studded 
with iron bolts, and the third alone is usually open as an 
entrance. A tall old porter used to stand there in a long 
livery-coat and a cocked-hat ; on holidays he appeared In 
the traditional garb of the Parisian “ Suisse,” magnificent 
in silk stockings and a heavily laced coat of dark green, 
leaning upon his tall mace — a constant object of wonder 
to the small boys of the quarter. He trimmed his white 
beard in imitation of his master’s — broad and square — 
and his words were few and to the point. 

No one was ever at home in the Palazzo Saracinesca in 
those days ; there were no ladies in the house ; it was a 
man’s establishment, and there was something severely 
masculine in the air of the gloomy courtyards surrounded 
by dark archways, where not a single plant or bit of 
colour relieved the ancient stone. The pavement was 
clean and well kept, a new flagstone here and there show- 
ing that some care was bestowed upon maintaining it in 
good repair; but for any decoration there was to be found 
in the courts, the place might have been a fortress, as 


28 


SA RAC IN ESC A. 


indeed it once was. The owners, father and son, lived 
in their ancestral home in a sort of solemn magnificence 
that savoured of feudal times. Giovanni was the 011I3/ 
son of five-and-twenty years of wedlock. His mother 
had been older than his father, and had now been dead 
some time. She had been a stern dark woman, and had 
lent no feminine touch of grace to the palace while she 
lived in it, her melancholic temper rather rejoicing in 
the sepulchral gloom that hung over the house. The 
Saracinesca had always been a manly race, preferring 
strength to beauty, and the reality of power to the amen- 
ities of comfort. 

Giovanni walked home from the afternoon reception at 
the Embassy. His temper seemed to crave the bleak wet 
air of the cold streets, and he did not hurry himself. He 
intended to dine at home that evening, and he anticipated 
some kind of disagreement with his father. The two men 
were too much alike not to be congenial, but too comba- 
tive by nature to care for eternal peace. On the present 
occasion it was likely that there wtiuld be a struggle, for 
Giovanni had made up his mind not to marry Madame 
Mayer, and his father was equally determined that he 
should marry her at once : both were singularly strong 
men, singularly tenacious of their opinions. 

At precisely seven o’clock father and son entered from 
different doors the small sitting-room in which they gene- 
rally met, and they had no sooner entered than dinner 
was announced. Two words might suffice for the descrip- 
tion of old Prince Saracinesca — he was an elder edition of 
his son. Sixty years of life had not bent his strong 
frame nor dimmed the brilliancy of his eyes, but his hair 
and beard were snowy white. He was broader in the 
shoulder and deeper in the chest than Giovanni, but of 
the same height, and well proportioned still, with little 
tendency to stoutness. He was to all appearance pre- 
cisely what his son would be at his age — keen and vigor- 
ous, the stern lines of his face grown deeper, and his 
very dark eyes and complexion made more noticeable by 


SARACINESOA. 


29 


the dazzling whiteness of his hair and broad square 
beard — the same type in a different stage of develop- 
ment. 

The dinner was served with a certain old-fashioned 
magnificence which has grown rare in Rome. There was 
old plate and old china upon the table, old cut glass of the 
diamond pattern, and an old butler who moved noise- 
lessly about in the performance of the functions he had 
exercised in the same room for forty years, and which 
his father had exercised there before him. Prince Sara- 
cinesca and Don Giovanni sat on opposite sides of the 
round table, now and then exchanging a few words. 

“ I was caught in the rain this afternoon,” remarked 
the Prince. 

“ I hope you will not have a cold/’ replied his son, 
civilly. “ Why do you walk in such weather ? ” 

“ And you — why do you walk ? ” retorted his father. 
“ Are you less likely to take cold than I am ? I walk 
because I have always walked.” 

“ That is an excellent reason. I walk because I do not 
keep a carriage.” 

“ Why do not you keep one if you wish to ? ” asked the 
Prince. 

“ I will do as you wish. I will buy an equipage to- 
morrow, lest I should again walk in the rain and catch 
cold. Where did you see me on foot ? ” 

“In the Orso, half an hour ago. Why do you talk 
about my wishes in that absurd way ?” 

“ Since you say it is absurd, I will not do so,” said Gio- 
vanni, quietly. 

“You are always contradicting me,” said the Prince. 
“ Some wine, Pasquale.” 

“ Contradicting you?” repeated Giovanni. “Nothing 
could be further from my intentions.” 

The old Prince slowly sipped a glass of wine before he 
answered. 

“Why do not you set up an establishment for yourself 
and live like a gentleman?” he asked at length. “You 


30 


SARACINESCA. 


are rich — why do you go about on foot and dine in 
caf4s ? ” 

“Do I ever dine at a cafe when you are dining 
alone ? ” 

“ You have got used to living in restaurants in Paris,” 
retorted his father. “ It is a bad habit. What was the 
use of your mother leaving you a fortune, unless you will 
live in a proper fashion ? ” 

“ I understand you very well,” answered Giovanni, his 
dark eyes beginning to gleam. “ You know all that is 
a pretence. I am the most home-staying man of your 
acquaintance. It is a mere pretence. You are going to 
talk about my marriage again.” 

“ And has any one a more natural right to insist upon 
your marriage than I have ? ” asked the elder man, hotly. 
“ Leave the wine on the table, Pasquale — and the fruit — 
here. Give Don Giovanni his cheese. I will ring for the 
coffee — leave us.” The butler and the footman left the 
room. “ Has any one a more natural right, I ask ? ” re- 
peated the Prince when they were alone. 

“No one but myself, I should say,” answered Giovanni, 
bitterly. 

“ Yourself — yourself indeed ! What have you to say 
about it? This is a family matter. Would you have 
Saracinesca sold, to be distributed piecemeal among a 
herd of dogs of starving relations you never heard of, 
merely because you are such a vagabond, such a Bohe- 
mian, such a break-neck, crazy good-for-nothing, that you 
will not take the trouble to accept one of all the women 
who rush into your arms ? ” 

“ Your affectionate manner of speaking of your rela- 
tives is only surpassed by your good taste in describing 
the probabilities of my marriage,” remarked Giovanni, 
scornfully. 

“ And you say you never contradict me ! ” exclaimed 
the Prince, angrily. 

“ If this is an instance, I can safely say so. Comment 
is not contradiction.” 


SARACINESCA. 31 

“ Do you mean to say you have not repeatedly refused 
to marry?” inquired old Saracinesca. 

“ That would be untrue. I have refused, I do refuse, 
and I will refuse, just so long as it pleases me.” 

“ That is definite, at all events. You will go on refus- 
ing until you have broken your silly neck in imitating 
Englishmen, and then — good night, Saracinesca ! The 
last of the family will have come to a noble end ! ” 

“ If the only use of my existence is to become the 
father of heirs to your titles, I do not care to enjoy them 
myself.” 

“You will not enjoy them till my death, at all events. 
Did you ever reflect that I might marry again ? ” 

“ If you please to do so, do not hesitate on my account. 
Madame Mayer will accept you as soon as me. Marry 
by all means, and may you have a numerous progeny ; 
and may they all marry in their turn, the day they are 
twenty. I wish you joy.” 

“You are intolerable, Giovanni. I should think you 
would have more respect for Donna Tullia ” 

“ Than to call her Madame Mayer,” interrupted Gio- 
vanni. 

“Than to suggest that she cares for nothing but a 
title and a fortune ” 

“ You showed much respect to her a moment ago, when 
you suggested that she was ready to rush into my arms.” 

“ I ! I never said such a thing. I said that any 
woman ” 

“Including Madame Mayer, of course/’ interrupted 
Giovanni again. 

“ Can you not let me speak ? ” roared the Prince. Gio- 
vanni shrugged his shoulders a little, poured out a glass 
of wine, and helped himself to cheese, but said nothing. 
Seeing that his son said nothing, old Saracinesca was 
silent too ; he was so angiy that he had lost the thread 
of his ideas. Perhaps Giovanni regretted the quarrelsome 
tone he had taken, for he presently spoke to his father 
in a more conciliatory tone. 


32 


SARACINESCA. 


“ Let us be just/’ he said. “ I will listen to you, and 
I shall be glad if you will listen to me. In the first 
place, when I think of marriage I represent something to 
myself by the term ” 

“ I hope so,” growled the old man. 

“I look upon marriage as an important step in a man’s 
life. I am not so old as to make my marriage an imme- 
diate necessity, nor so young as to be able wholly to dis- 
regard it. I do not desire to be hurried; for when I 
make up my mind, I intend to make a choice which, if it 
does not ensure happiness, will at least ensure peace. I 
do not wish to marry Madame Mayer. She is young, 
handsome, rich ” 

“Very,” ejaculated the Prince. 

“Very. I also am young and rich, if not handsome.” 

“Certainly not handsome,” said his father, who was 
nursing his wrath, and meanwhile spoke calmly. “You 
are the image of me.” 

“ I am proud of the likeness,” said Giovanni, gravely. 
“ But to return to Madame Mayer. She is a widow ” 

“ Is that her fault ? ” inquired his father irrelevantly, 
his anger rising again. 

“ I trust not,” said Giovanni, with a smile. “ I trust 
she did not murder old Mayer. Nevertheless she is a 
widow. That is a strong objection. Have any of my 
ancestors married widows ? ” 

“'You show your ignorance at every turn,” said the old 
Prince, with a scornful laugh. “Leone Saracinesca 
married the widow of the Elector of Limburger-Stinken- 
stein in 1581.” 

“ It is probably the German blood in our veins which 
gives you your taste for argument,” remarked Giovanni. 
“ Because three hundred years ago an ancestor married 
a widow, I am to marry one now. Wait — do not be 
angry — there are other reasons why I do not care for 
Madame Mayer. She is too gay for me — too fond of the 
world.” 

The Prince burst into a loud ironical laugh. His white 


SARACIK ESCA. 


33 


hair and beard bristled about his dark face, and he 
showed all his teeth, strong and white still. 

“ That is magnificent ! ” he cried ; “ it is superb, 
splendid, a piece of unpurchasable humour ! Giovanni 
Saracinesca has found a woman who is too gay for him ! 
Heaven be praised! We know his taste at last. We 
will give him a nun, a miracle of all the virtues, a little 
giiTout of a convent, vowed to a life of sacrifice and self- 
renunciation. That will please him — he will be a model 
happy husband.” 

“I do not understand this extraordinary outburst,” 
answered Giovanni, with cold scorn. “Your mirth is 
amazing, but I fail to understand its source.” 

His father ceased laughing, and looked at him curi- 
ously, his heavy brows bending with the intenseness of 
his gaze. Giovanni returned the look, and it seemed as 
though those two strong angry men were fencing across 
the table with their fiery glances. The son was the first 
to speak. 

“Ho you mean to imply that I am not the kind of 
man to be allowed to marry a young girl ? ” he asked, 
not taking his eyes from his father. 

“ Look you, boy,” returned the Prince, “ I will have no 
more nonsense. I insist upon this match, as I have told 
you before. It is the most suitable one that I can find 
for you; and instead of being grateful, you turn upon 
me and refuse to do your duty. Donna Tullia is twenty- 
three years of age. She is brilliant, rich. There is 
nothing against her. She is a distant cousin ” 

“ One of the flock of vultures you so tenderly referred 
to,” remarked Giovanni. 

« Silence ! ” cried old Saracinesca, striking his heavy 
hand upon the table so that the glasses shook together. 
« I will be heard ; and what is more, I will be obeyed. 
Donna Tullia is a relation. The union of two such for- 
tunes will be of immense advantage to your children.’ 
There is everything in favour of the match — nothing 
against it. You shall marry her a month fro.m to-day. 

c 


34 


SARACINESCA. 


I will give you the title of Sant’ Ilario, with the estate 
outright into the bargain, and the palace in the Corso to 
live in, if you do not care to live here.” 

- “ And if I refuse ? ” asked Giovanni, choking down 
his anger. 

“ If you refuse, you shall leave my house a month from 
to-day,” said the Prince, savagely. 

“ Whereby I shall be fulfilling your previous commands, 
in setting up an establishment for myself and living like 
a gentleman,” returned Giovanni, with a bitter laugh. 
“ It is nothing to me — if you turn me out. I am rich, 
as you justly observed.” 

“ You will have the more leisure to lead the life you 
like best,” retorted the Prince ; “to hang about in society, 

to go where you please, to make love to ” the old man 

stopped a moment. His son was watching him fiercely, 
his hand clenched upon the table, his face as white as death. 

“ To whom ? ” he asked, with a terrible effort to be calm. 

“Do you think I am afraid of you? Do you think 
your father is less strong or less fierce than you ? To 
whom ? ” cried the angry old man, his whole pent-up 
fury bursting out as he rose suddenly to his feet. “To 
whom but to Corona d’Astrardente — to whom else should 
you make love ? — wasting your youth and life upon a 
mad passion ! All Rome says it — I will say it too ! ” 

“ You have said it indeed,” answered Giovanni, in a very 
low voice. He remained seated at the table, not moving* 
a muscle, his face as the face of the dead. “You have 
said it, and in insulting that lady you have said a thing 
not worthy for one of our blood to say. God help me to 
remember that you are my father,” he added, trembling 
suddenly. 

“ Hold ! ” said the Prince, who, with all his ambition 
for his son, and his hasty temper, was an honest gentle- 
man. “ I never insulted her — she is above suspicion. 
It is you who are wasting your life in a hopeless passion 
for her. See, I speak calmly ” 

“ What does ‘ all Rome say ’ ? ” asked Giovanni, inter- 


SARACINESCA. 


35 


rupting him. He was still deadly pale, but his hand 
was unclenched, and as he spoke he rested his head upon 
it, looking down at the tablecloth. 

“ Everybody says that you are in love with the Astrar- 
dente, and that her husband is beginning to notice it.” 

“ It is enough, sir,” said Giovanni, in low tones. *“I 
will consider this marriage you propose. Give me until 
the spring to decide.” 

“ That is a long time,” remarked the old Prince, resum- 
ing his seat and beginning to peel an orange, as though 
nothing had happened. He was far from being calm, but 
his son’s sudden change of manner had disarmed his anger. 
He was passionate and impetuous, thoughtless in his lan- 
guage, and tyrannical in his determination ; but he loved 
Giovanni dearly for all that. 

“I do not think it long,” said Giovanni, thoughtfully. 
“ I give you my word that I will seriously consider the 
marriage. If it is possible for me to marry Donna Tullia, 
I will obey you, and I will give you my answer before 
Easter-day. I cannot do more.” 

“ I sincerely hope you will take my advice,” answered 
Saracinesca, now entirely pacified. “ If you cannot make 
up your mind to the match, I may be able to find some- 
thing else. There is Bianca Valdarno — she will have a 
quarter of the estate.” 

“She is so very ugly,” objected Giovanni, quietly. 
He was still much agitated, but he answered his father 
mechanically. 

“ That is true — they are all ugly, those Valdarni. 
Besides, they are of Tuscan origin. What do you say 
to the little Rocca girl? She has great chic; she was 
brought up in England. She is pretty enough.” 

“ I am afraid «he would be extravagant.” 

“ She could spend her own money then ; it will be 
sufficient.” 

“ It is better to be on the safe side,” said Giovanni. 
Suddenly he changed his position, and again looked at 
his father. “I am sorry we always quarrel about this 


86 


SARACINESCA. 


question,” he said. “ I do not really want to marry, but 
I wish to oblige you, and I will try. Why do we always 
come to words over it ? ” 

“1 am sure I do not know,” said the Prince, with a 
pleasant smile. “ I have* such a diabolical temper, I 
suppose.” 

“And I have inherited it,” answered Don Giovanni, 
with a laugh that was meant to be cheerful. “ But I 
quite see your point of view. I suppose I ought to settle 
in life by this time.” 

“ Seriously, I think so, my son. Here is to your future 
happiness,” said the old gentleman, touching his glass 
with his lips. 

“ And here is to our future peace,” returned Giovanni, 
also drinking. 

“We never really quarrel, Giovanni, do we ? ” said his 
father. Every trace of anger had vanished. His strong 
face beamed with an affectionate smile that was like the 
sun after a thunderstorm. 

“No, indeed,” answered his son, cordially. “We can- 
not afford to quarrel ; there are only two of us left.” 

“That is what I always say,” assented the Prince, be- 
ginning to eat the orange he had carefully peeled since he 
had grown calm. “ If two men like you and me, my boy, 
can thoroughly agree, there is nothing we cannot accom- 
plish ; whereas if we go against each other ” 

“ Justitia non fit, coelum vero ruet,” suggested Giovanni, 
in parody of the proverb. 

“ I am a little rusty in my Latin, Giovannino,” said the 
old gentleman. 

“Heaven is turned upside down, but justice is not done.” 

“No ; one is never just when one is angry. But storms 
clear the sky, as they say up at Saracinesca.” 

“ By the bye, have you heard whether that question of 
the timber has been settled yet ? ” asked Giovanni. 

“ Of course — I had forgotten. I will tell you all about 
it,” answered his father, cheerfully. So they chatted 
peacefully for another half-hour ; and no one would have 


SATtACINESCA. 


37 


thought, in looking at them, that such fierce passions had 
been roused, nor that one of them felt as though his death- 
warrant had been signed. When they separated, Giovanni 
went to his own rooms, and locked himself in. 

He had assumed an air of calmness which was not real 
before he left his father. In truth he was violently agi- 
tated. He was as fiery as his father, but his passions 
were of greater strength and of longer duration; for his 
mother had been a Spaniard, and something of the melan- 
choly of her country had entered into his soul, giving 
depth and durability to the hot Italian character he 
inherited from his father. Nor did the latter suspect the 
cause of his son’s sudden change of tone in regard to the 
marriage. It was precisely the difference in tempera- 
ment which made Giovanni incomprehensible to the old 
Prince. 

Giovanni had realised for more than a year past that 
he loved Corona d’Astrardente. Contrary to the custom 
of young men in his position, he determined from the first 
that he would never let her know it ; and herein lay the 
key to all his actions. He had, as he thought, made a 
point of behaving to her on all occasions as he behaved 
to the other women he met in the world, and he believed 
that he had skilfully concealed his passion from the world 
and from the woman he loved. He had acted on all occa- 
sions with a circumspection which was not natural to him, 
and for which he undeniably deserved great credit. It 
had been a year of constant struggles, constant efforts at 
self-control, constant determination that, if possible, he 
would overcome his instincts. It was true that, when 
occasion offered, he had permitted himself the pleasure 
of talking to Corona d’Astrardente — talking, he well 
knew, upon the most general subjects, but finding at 
each interview some new point of sympathy. Never, he 
could honestly say, had he approached in that time the 
subject of love, nor even the equally dangerous topic of 
friendship, the discussion of which leads to so many 
ruinous experiments. He had never by look or word 


88 


SARAC1NESCA. 


sought to interest the dark Duchessa in his doings nor in 
himself; he had talked of books, of politics, of social 
questions, but never of himself nor of herself. He had 
faithfully kept the promise he had made in his heart, 
that since he was so unfortunate as to love the wife of 
another — a woman of such nobility that even in Rome 
no breath had been breathed against her — he would keep 
his unfortunate passion to himself. Astrardente was old, 
almost decrepit, in spite of his magnificent wig ; Corona 
was but two-and-twenty years of age. If ever her hus- 
band died, Giovanni would present himself before the 
world as her suitor; meanwhile he would do nothing to 
injure her self-respect nor to disturb her peace — he hardly 
flattered himself he could do that, for he loved her truly — 
and above all, he would do nothing to compromise the 
unsullied reputation she enjoyed. She might never love 
him ; but he was strong and patient, and would do her 
the only honour it was in his power to do her, by waiting 
patiently. 

But Giovanni had not considered that he was the most 
conspicuous man in society ; that there were many who 
watched his movements, in hopes he would come their 
way ; that when he entered a room, many had noticed 
that, though he never went directly to Corona’s side, he 
always looked first towards her, and never omitted to 
speak with her in the course of an evening. Keen ob- 
servers, the jays of society who hover about the eagle’s 
nest, had not failed to observe a look of annoyance on 
Giovanni’s face when he did not succeed in being alone 
by Corona’s side for at least a few minutes ; and Del 
Ferice, who was a sort of news-carrier in Home, had now 
and then hinted that Giovanni was in love. People had 
repeated his hints, as he intended they should, with the 
illuminating wit peculiar to tale-bearers, and the story had 
gone abroad accordingly. True, there was not a man in 
Home bold enough to allude to the matter in Giovanni’s 
presence, even if any one had seen any advantage in so 
doing; but such things do not remain hidden. His own 


SARACINESCA. 


89 


father had told him in a fit of anger, and the blow had 
produced its effect. 

Giovanni sat down in a deep easy-chair in his own 
room, and thought over the situation. His first impulse 
had been to be furiously angry with his father ; but the 
latter having instantly explained that there was nothing 
to be said against the Duchessa, Giovanni’s anger against 
the Prince had turned against himself. It was bitter to 
think that all his self-denial, all his many and prolonged 
efforts to conceal his love, had been of no avail. He 
cursed his folly and imprudence, while wondering how it 
was possible that the story should have got abroad. He 
did not waver in his determination to hide his inclina- 
tions, to destroy the impression he had so unwillingly pro- 
duced. The first means he found in his way seemed the 
best. To marry Donna Tullia at once, before the story of 
his affection for the Duchessa had gathered force, would, 
he thought, effectually shut the mouths of the gossips. 
From one point of view it was a noble thought, the deter- 
mination to sacrifice himself wholly and for ever, rather 
than permit his name to be mentioned ever so innocently 
in connection with the woman he loved; to root out 
utterly his love for her by seriously engaging his faith to 
another, and keeping that engagement with all the 
strength of fidelity he knew himself to possess. He 
would save Corona from annoyance, and her name from 
the scandal-mongers ; and if any one ever dared to men- 
tion the story 

Giovanni rose to his feet and mechanically took a 
fencing-foil from the wall, as he often did for practice. 
If any one mentioned the story, he thought, he had the 
means to silence them, quickly and for ever. His eyes 
flashed suddenly at the idea of action — any action, even 
fighting, which might be distantly connected with Corona. 
Then he tossed down the rapier and threw himself into 
his chair, and sat quite still, staring at the trophies of 
armour upon the wall opposite. 

He could not do it. To wrong one woman for the sake 


40 


SARACINESCA. 


of shielding another was not in his power. People might 
laugh at him and call him Quixotic, forsooth, because he 
would not do like every one else and make a marriage of 
convenience — of propriety. Propriety ! when his heart 
was breaking within him ; when every fibre of his strong 
frame quivered with the strain of passion ; when his ach- 
ing eyes saw only one face, and his ears echoed the words 
she had spoken that very afternoon ! Propriety indeed ! 
Propriety was good enough for cold-blooded dullards. 
Donna Tullia had done him no harm that he should marry 
her -for propriety’s sake, and make her life miserable for 
thirty, forty, fifty years. It would be propriety rather 
for him to go away, to bury himself in the ends of the 
earth, until he could forget Corona d’Astrardente, her 
splendid eyes, and her deep sweet voice. 

He had pledged his father his word that he would con- 
sider the marriage, and he was to give his answer before 
Easter. That was a long time yet. He would consider 
it ; and if by Eastertide he had forgotten Corona, he would 

he laughed aloud in his silent room, and the sound of 

his voice startled him from his reverie. 

Eorget ? Did such men as he forget ? Other men did. 
What were they made of ? They did not love such women, 
perhaps ; that was the reason they forgot. Any one could 
forget poor Donna Tullia. And yet how was it possible 
to forget if one loved truly ? 

Giovanni had never believed himself in love before. 
He had known one or two women who had attracted him 
strongly; but he had soon found out that he had no real 
sympathy with them, that though they amused him they 
had no charm for him — most of all, that he could not 
imagine himself tied to any one of them for life without 
conceiving the situation horrible in the extreme. To his 
independent nature the idea of such ties was repugnant : 
he knew himself too courteous to break through the civil- 
ities of life with a wife he did not love ; but he knew also 
that in marrying a woman who was indifferent to him, he 
would be engaging to play a part for life in the most 


SARACINESCA. 


41 


fearful of all plays — the part of a man who strives to bear 
bravely the galling of a chain he is too honourable to break. 

It was four o’clock in the morning when Giovanni went 
to bed ; and even then he slept little, for his dreams were 
disturbed. Once he thought he stood upon a green lawn 
with a sword in his hand, and the blood upon its point, his 
opponent lying at his feet. Again, he thought he was 
alone in a vast drawing-room, and a dark woman came 
and spoke gently to him, saying, “ Marry her for my sake.” 
He awoke with a groan. The church clocks were strik- 
ing eight, and the meet was at eleven, five miles beyond 
the Porta Pia. Giovanni started up and rang for his 
servant. 


CHAPTER IV. 

It was a beautiful day, and half Rome turned out to see 
the meet, not because it was in any way different from 
other meets, but because it chanced that society had a 
fancy to attend it. Society is very like a fever patient 
in a delirium ; it is rarely accountable for its actions ; it 
scarcely ever knows what it is saying ; and occasionally, 
without the least warning or premeditation, it leaps out of 
bed at an early hour of the morning and rushes frantically 
in pursuit of its last hallucination. The main difference 
is, that whereas a man in a fever has a nurse, society has 
none. 

On the present occasion every one had suddenly con- 
ceived the idea of going to the meet, and the long road 
beyond the Porta Pia was dotted for miles with equipages 
of every description, from the four-in-hand of Prince Val- 
darno to the humble donkey-cart of the caterer who sells 
messes of boiled beans, and bread and cheese, and salad 
to the grooms — an institution not connected in the Eng- 
lish mind with hunting. 'One after another the vehicles 
rolled out along the road, past Sant’ Agnese, dowji the 


42 


SARACINESCA. 


hill and across the Ponte ISTomentana, and far up beyond 
to a place where three roads met and there was a broad 
open stretch of wet, withered grass. Here the carriages 
turned in and ranged themselves side by side, as though 
they were pausing in the afternoon drive upon the Pincio, 
instead of being five miles out upon the broad Campagna. 

To describe the mountains to southward of Pome would 
be an insult to nature ; to describe a meet would be an 
affront to civilised readers of the English language. The 
one is too familiar to everybody ; the pretty crowd of men 
and women, dotted with pink and set off by the neutral 
colour of the winter fields ; the hunters of all ages, and 
'sizes, and breeds, led slowly up and down by the grooms ; 
while from time to time some rider gets into the saddle and 
makes himself comfortable, assures himself of girth and 
stirrup, and of the proper disposal of the sandwich-box and 
sherry-flask, gives a final word of instruction to his groom, 
and then moves slowly off. A Roman meet is a little 
less business-like than the same thing elsewhere ; there is 
a little more dawdling, a little more conversation when 
many ladies chance to have come to see the hounds throw 
off ; otherwise it is not different from other meets. As 
for the Roman mountains, they are so totally unlike any 
other hills in the world, and so extremely beautiful in their 
own peculiar way, that to describe them would be an idle 
and a useless task, which could only serve to exhibit the 
vanity of the writer and the feebleness of his pen. 

Don Giovanni arrived early in spite of his sleepless 
night. He descended from his dogcart by the roadside, 
instead of driving into the field, and he took a careful 
survey of the carriages he saw before him. Conspicuous 
in the distance he distinguished Donna Tullia Mayer 
standing among a little crowd of men near Valdarno’s 
drag. She was easily known by her dress, as Del Ferice 
had remarked on the previous evening. On this occasion 
she wore a costume in which the principal colours were 
green and yellow, an enormous hat, with feathers in the 
same proportion surmounting her head ? and she carried 


SARACINESCA. 


43 


a yellow parasol. She was a rather handsome woman of 
middle height, with unnaturally blond hair, and a fairly 
good complexion, which as yet she had wisely abstained 
from attempting to improve by artificial means ; her eyes 
were blue, but uncertain in their glance — of the kind 
which do not inspire confidence ; and her mouth was 
much admired, being small and red, with full lips. She 
was rapid in her movements, and she spoke in a loud 
voice, easily collecting people about her wherever there 
were any to collect. Her conversation was not brilliant, 
but it was so abundant that its noisy vivacity passed cur- 
rent for cleverness ; she had a remarkably keen judgment 
of people, and a remarkably bad taste in her opinions of 
things artistic, from beauty in nature to beauty in dress, 
but she maintained her point of view obstinately, and ad- 
mitted no contradiction. It was a singular circumstance 
that whereas many of her attributes were distinctly vul- 
gar, she nevertheless had an indescribable air of good 
breeding, the strange inimitable stamp of social superior- 
ity which cannot be acquired by any known process of 
education. A person seeing her might be surprised at her 
loud talking, amused at her eccentricities of dress, and 
shocked at her bold manner, but no one would ever think 
of classing her anywhere save in what calls itself “the 
best society.” 

Among the men who stood talking to Donna Tullia 
was the inevitable Del Ferice, a man of whom it might 
be said that he was never missed, because he was always 
present. Giovanni disliked Del Ferice without being 
able to define his aversion. He disliked generally men 
whom he suspected of duplicity ; and he had no reason 
for supposing that truth, looking into her mirror, would 
have seen there the image of Ugo’s fat pale face and 
colourless moustache. But if Ugo was a liar, he must 
have had a good memory, for he never got himself into 
trouble, and he had the reputation of being a useful mem- 
ber of society, an honour to which persons of doubtful 
veracity rarely attain. Giovanni, however, disliked him, 


44 


SARACINESCA. 


and suspected him of many things; and although he had 
intended to go up to Donna Tullia, the sight of Del 
Ferice at her side very nearly prevented him. He 
strolled leisurely down the little slope, and as he neared 
the crowd, spoke to one or two acquaintances, mentally 
determining to avoid Madame Mayer, and to mount 
immediately. But he was disappointed in his intention. 
As he stood for a moment beside the carriage of the 
Marchesa Kocca, exchanging a few words with her, and 
looking with some interest at her daughter, the little 
Kocca girl whom his father had proposed as a possible 
wife for him, he forgot his proximity to the lady he 
wished to avoid ; and when, a few seconds later, he pro- 
ceeded in the direction of his horse, Madame Mayer 
stepped forward from the knot of her admirers and 
tapped him familiarly upon the shoulder with the handle 
of her parasol. 

“ So you were not going to speak to me to-day ? ” she 
said rather roughly, after her manner. 

Giovanni turned sharply and faced her, bowing low. 
Donna Tullia laughed. 

“Is there anything so amazingly ridiculous in my ap- 
pearance ? ” he asked. 

“ Altro ! when you make that tremendous salute ” 

“It was intended to convey an apology as wejl as a 
greeting,” answered Don Giovanni, politely. 

“ I would like more apology and less greeting.” 

“ I am ready to apologise ” 

“Humbly, without defending yourself,” said Donna 
Tullia, beginning to walk slowly forward. Giovanni was 
obliged to follow her. 

“My defence is, nevertheless, a very good one,” he 
said. 

“ Well, if it is really good, I may listen to it ; but you 
will not make me believe that you intended to behave 
properly.” 

“I am in a very bad humour. I would not inflict my 
cross temper upon you ; therefore I avoided you.” 


SARACINESCA. 


45 


Donna Tullia eyed him attentively. When she an- 
swered she drew in her small red lips with an air of 
annoyance. 

“ You look as though you were in bad humour,” she 
answered. “ I am sorry I disturbed you. It is better to 
leave sleeping dogs alone, as the proverb says.” 

“ I have not snapped yet,” said Giovanni. “ I am not 
dangerous, I assure you.” 

“ Oh, I am not in the least afraid of you,” replied his 
companion, with a little scorn. “ Do not flatter yourself 
your little humours frighten me. I suppose you intend 
to follow ? ” 

“ Yes,” answered Saracinesca, shortly ; he was beginning 
to weary of Donna Tullia’s manner of taking him to task. 

“You had much better come with as, and leave the 
poor foxes alone. Valdarno is going to drive us round by 
the cross-roads to the Capannelle. We will have a picnic 
lunch, and be home before three o’clock.” 

“ Thanks very much. I cannot let my horse shirk his 
work. I must beg you to excuse me ” 

“ Again ? ” exclaimed Donna Tullia. “ You are always 
making excuses.” Then she suddenly changed her tone, 
and looked down. “ I wish you would come with us,” she 
said, gently. “ It is not often I ask you to do anything.” 

Giovanni looked at her quickly. He knew that Donna 
Tullia wished to marry him ; he even suspected that his 
father had discussed the matter with her — no uncommon 
occurrence when a marriage has to be arranged with a 
widow. But he did not know that Donna Tullia was in 
love with him in her own odd fashion. He looked at her, 
and he saw that as she spoke there were tears of vexation 
in her bold blue eyes. He hesitated a moment, but nat- 
ural courtesy won the day. 

“I will go with you,” he said, quietly. A blush of 
pleasure rose to Madame Mayer’s pink cheeks ; she felt she 
had made a point, but she was not willing to show her 
satisfaction. 

“You say it as though you were conferring a favour,” 


46 


SARACINESCA. 


she said, with a show of annoyance, which was belied by 
the happy expression of her face. 

“ Pardon me ; I myself am the favoured person,” replied 
Giovanni, mechanically. He had yielded because he did 
not know how to refuse ; but he already regretted it, and 
would have given much to escape from the party. 

“You do not look as though you believed it,” said 
Donna Tullia, eyeing him critically. “ If you are going 
to be disagreeable, I release you.” She said this well 
knowing, the while, that he would not accept of his 
liberty. 

“ If you are so ready to release me, as you call it, you 
do not really want me,” said her companion. Donna Tullia 
bit her lip, and there was a moment’s pause. “ If you will 
excuse me a moment I will send my horse home — I will 
join you at once.” 

“ There is your horse — right before us,” said Madame 
Mayer. Even that short respite was not allowed him, and 
she waited while Don Giovanni ordered the astonished 
groom to take his hunter for an hour’s exercise in a 
direction where he would not fall in with the hounds. 

“ I did not believe you would really do it,” said Donna 
Tullia, as the two turned and sauntered back towards the 
carriages. Most of the men who meant to follow had 
already mounted, and the little crowd had thinned con- 
siderably. But while they had been talking another 
carriage had driven into the field, and had halted a 
few yards from Valdarno’s drag. Astrardente had taken 
it into his head to come to the meet with his wife, and 
they had arrived late. Astrardente always arrived a little 
late, on principle. As Giovanni and Donna Tullia came 
back to their drag, they suddenly found themselves face 
to face with the Duchessa and her husband. It did not 
surprise Corona to see Giovanni walking with the woman 
he did not intend to marry, but it seemed to give the old 
Duke undisguised pleasure. 

“Do you see, Corona, there is no doubt of it ! It is 
just as I told you,” exclaimed the aged dandy, in a voice 


SARACINESCA. 


47 


so audible that Giovanni frowned and Donna Tullia blushed 
slightly. Both of them bowed as they passed the carriage. 
Don Giovanni looked straight into Corona’s face as he took 
off his hat. He might very well have made her a little 
sign, the smallest gesture, imperceptible to Donna Tullia, 
whereby he could have given her the idea that his posi- 
tion was involuntary. But Don Giovanni was a gentle- 
man, and he did nothing of the kind; he bowed and 
looked calmly at the woman he loved as he passed by. 
Astrardente watched him keenly, and as he noticed the 
indifference of Saracinesca’s look, he gave a curious little 
snuffling snort that was peculiar to him. He could have 
sworn that neither his wife nor Giovanni had shown the 
smallest interest in each other. He was satisfied. His 
wife was above suspicion, as he always said ; but he was 
an old man, and had seen the world, and he knew that 
however implicitly he might trust the noble woman who 
had sacrificed her youth to his old age, it was not be- 
yond the bounds of possibility that she might become 
innocently interested, even unawares, in some younger 
man — in some such man as Giovanni Saracinesca — and 
he thought it worth his while to watch her. His little 
snort, however, was indicative of satisfaction. Corona 
had not winced at the mention of the marriage, and had 
nodded with the greatest unconcern to the man as he 
passed. 

“Ah, Donna Tullia!” he cried, as he returned their 
greeting, “you are preventing Don Giovanni from mount- 
ing ; the riders will be off in a moment.” 

Being thus directly addressed, there was nothing to be 
done but to stop and exchange a few words. The Du- 
chessa was on the side nearest to the pair as they passed, 
and her husband rose and sat opposite her, so as to talk 
more at his ease. There were renewed greetings on 
both sides, and Giovanni naturally found himself talking 
to Corona, while her husband and Donna Tullia conversed 
together. 

“What man could think of hunting when he could 


48 


SARACINESCA. 


be talking to you instead ? ” said old Astrardente, whose 
painted face adjusted itself in a sort of leer that had once 
been a winning smile. Every one knew he painted, his 
teeth were a miracle of American dentistry, and his wig 
had deceived a great portrait-painter. The padding in 
his clothes was disposed with cunning wisdom, and in 
public he rarely removed the gloves from his small hands. 
Donna Tullia laughed at what he said. 

“You should teach Don Giovanni to make pretty 
speeches,” she said. “He is as surly as a wolf this 
morning.” 

“ I should think a man in his position would not need 
much teaching in order to be gallant to you,” replied the 
old dandy, with a knowing look. Then lowering his 
voice, he added confidentially, “ I hope that before very 
long I may be allowed to congrat ” 

“ I have prevailed upon him to give up following the 
hounds to-day,” interrupted Donna Tullia, quickly. She 
spoke loud enough to be noticed by Corona. “He is 
coming with us to picnic at the Capannelle instead.” 

Giovanni could not help glancing quickly at Corona. 
She smiled faintly, and her face betrayed no emotion. 

“I daresay it will be very pleasant,” she said gently, 
looking far out over the Campagna. In the next field the 
pack was moving away, followed at a little distance by a 
score of riders in pink ; one or two men who had stayed 
behind in conversation, mounted hastily and rode after the 
hunt ; some of the carriages turned out of the field and 
began to follow slowly along the road, in hopes of seeing 
the hounds throw off ; the party who were going with Val- 
darno gathered about the drag, waiting for Donna Tullia ; 
the grooms who were left behind congregated around the 
men who sold boiled beans and salad; and in a few 
minutes the meet had practically dispersed. 

“ Why will you not join us, Duchessa ? ” asked Madame 
Mayer. “ There is lunch enough for everybody, and the 
more people we are the pleasanter it will be.” Donna 
Tullia made her suggestion with her usual frank manner, 


SARACINESCA. 


49 


fixing her blue eyes upon Corona as she spoke. There was 
every appearance of cordiality in the invitation ; but Donna 
Tullia kneAV well enough that there was a sting in her 
words, or at all events that she meant there should be. 
Corona, however, glanced quietly at her husband, and then 
courteously refused. 

“You are most kind,” she said, “but I fear we cannot 
join you to-day. We are very regular people,” she ex- 
plained, with a slight smile, “and we are not prepared to 
go to-day. Many thanks ; I wish we could accept your 
kind invitation.” 

“ Well, I am sorry you will not come,” said Donna 
Tullia, with a rather hard laugh. “ We mean to enjoy 
ourselves immensely.” 

Giovanni said nothing. There was only one thing which 
could have rendered the prospect of Madame Mayer’s pic- 
nic more disagreeable to him than it already was, and that 
would have been the presence of the Duchessa. He knew 
himself to be in a thoroughly false position in consequence 
of having yielded to Donna Tullia’ s half -tearful request 
that he would join the party. He remembered how he 
had spoken to Corona on the previous evening, assuring 
her that he would not marry Madame Mayer. Corona 
knew nothing of the change his plans had undergone dur- 
ing the stormy interview he had had with his father ; he 
longed, indeed, to be able to make the Duchessa under- 
stand, but any attempt at explanation would be wholly 
impossible. Corona would think he was inconsistent, or 
at least that he was willing to flirt with the gay widow, 
while determined not to marry her. He reflected that it 
was part of his self-condemnation that he should appear 
unfavourably to the woman he loved, and whom he was 
determined *to renounce ; but he realised for the first time 
how bitter it would be to stand thus always in the ap- 
pearance of weakness and self-contradiction in the eyes 
of the only human being whose good opinion he coveted, 
and for whose dear sake he was willing to do all things. 
As he stood by her, his hand rested upon the side of the 


50 


SARACINESCA. 


carriage, and he stared blankly at the distant hounds and 
the retreating riders. 

“ Come, Don Giovanni, we must be going,” said Donna 
Tullia. “What in the world are you thinking of? You 
look as though you had been turned into a statue ! ” 

“I beg your pardon,” returned Saracinesca, suddenly 
called back from the absorbing train of his unpleasant 
thoughts. “Good-bye, Duchessa; good-bye, Astrardente 
— a pleasant drive to you.” 

“You will always regret not having come, you know,” 
cried Madame Mayer, shaking hands with both the oc- 
cupants of the carriage. “We shall probably end by 
driving to Albano, and staying all night — just fancy ! 
Immense fun — not even a comb in the whole party! 
Good-bye. I suppose we shall all meet to-night — that 
is, if we ever come back to Rome at all. Come along, 
Giovanni,” she said, familiarly dropping the prefix from 
his name. After all, he was a sort of cousin, and people 
in Rome are very apt to call each other by their Chris- 
tian names. But Donna Tullia knew what she was 
about ; she knew that Corona d’ Astrardente could never, 
under any circumstances whatever, call Saracinesca plain 
“ Giovanni.” But she had not the satisfaction of seeing 
that anything she said produced any change in Corona’s 
proud dark face ; she seemed of no more importance in 
the Duchessa’s eyes than if she had been a fly buzzing 
in the sunshine. 

So Giovanni and Madame Mayer joined their noisy 
party, and began to climb into their places upon the 
drag ; but before they were prepared to start, the Astrar- 
dente carriage turned and drove rapidly out of the field. 
The laughter and loud talking came to Corona’s ears, 
growing fainter and more distant every second, and the 
sound was very cruel to her ; but she set her strong brave 
lips together, and leaned back, adjusting the blanket over 
her old husband’s knees with one hand, and shading the 
sun from her eyes with the parasol she held in the other. 

“Thank you, my dear; you are an angel of thought- 


SARACINESCA. 


51 


fulness,” said the old dandy, stroking his wife’s hand. 
“ What a singularly vulgar woman Madame Mayer is ! 
And yet she has a certain little chic of her own.” 

Corona did not withdraw her fingers from her husband’s 
caress. She was used to it. After all, he was kind to her 
in his way. It would have been absurd to have been jeal- 
ous of the grossly flattering speeches he made to other 
women ; and indeed he was as fond of turning compliments 
to his wife as to any one. It was a singular relation that 
had grown up between the old man and the young girl he 
had married. Had he been less thoroughly a man of the 
world, or had' Corona been less entirely honest and loyal 
and self-sacrificing, there would have been small peace in 
their wedlock. But Astrardente, decayed roue and worn- 
out dandy as he was, was in love with his wife ; and she, 
in all the young magnificence of her beauty, submitted to 
be loved by him, because she had promised that she would 
do so, and because, having sworn, she regarded the break- 
ing of her faith by the smallest act of unkindness as a 
tiling beyond the bounds of possibility. It had been a 
terrible blow to her to discover that she cared for Don 
Giovanni even in the way she believed she did, as a man 
whose society she preferred to that of other men, and whose 
face it gave her pleasure to see. She, too, had spent a 
sleepless night ; and when she had risen in the morning, 
she had determined to forget Giovanni, and if she could 
not forget him, she had sworn that more than ever she 
would be all things to her husband. 

She wondered now, as Giovanni had known she would, 
why he had suddenly thrown over his day’s hunting in 
order to spend his time with Donna Tullia ; but she would 
not acknowledge, even to herself, that the dull pain she 
felt near her heart, and that seemed to oppress her breath- 
ing, bore any relation to the scene she had just witnessed. 
She shut her lips tightly, and arranged the blanket for 
her husband. 

“ Madame Mayer is vulgar,” she answered. “ I suppose 
she cannot help it.” 


52 


SARACINESCA. 


“ Women can always help being vulgar,” returned 
Astrardente. “ I believe she learned it from her husband. 
Women are not naturally like that. Nevertheless she is 
an excellent match for Giovanni Saracinesca. Bich, by 
millions. Undeniably handsome, gay — well, rather too 
gay ; but Giovanni is so serious that the contrast will be 
to their mutual advantage.” 

Corona was silent. There was nothing the old man 
disliked so much as silence. 

“ Why do you not answer me ? ” he asked, rather petu- 
lantly. 

“ I do not know — I was thinking,” said Corona, simply. 
“ I do not see that it is a great match after all, for the 
last of the Saracinesca.” 

“ You think she will lead him a terrible dance, I dare- 
say,” returned the old man. “ She is gay — very gay ; and 
Giovanni is very, very solemn.” 

“ I did not mean that she was too gay. I only think 
that Saracinesca might marry, for instance, the Bocca 
• girl. Why should he take a widow ? ” 

“ Such a young widow. Old Mayer was as decrepit as 
any old statue in a museum. He was paralysed in one 
arm, and gouty — gouty, my dear ; you do not know how 
gouty he was.” The old fellow grinned scornfully ; he 
had never had the gout. “ Donna Tullia is a very young 
widow. Besides, think of the fortune. It would break 
old Saracinesca’s heart to let so much money go out of 
the family. He is a miserly old wretch, Saracinesca ! ” 

“ I never heard that,” said Corona. 

“ Oh, there are many things in Borne that one never 
hears, and that is one of them. I hate avarice — it is so 
extremely vulgar.” 

Indeed Astrardente was not himself avaricious, though 
he had all his life known how to protect his interests. 
He loved money, but he loved also to spend it, especially 
in such a way as to make a great show with it. It was 
not true, however, that Saracinesca was miserly. He 
spent a large income without the smallest ostentation. 


SARACINESCA. 


58 


“ Really, I should hardly call Prince Saracinesca a 
miser,” said Corona. “ I cannot imagine, from what I 
know of him, why he should be so anxious to get Madame 
Mayer’s fortune ; but I do not think it is out of mere 
greediness.” 

“ Then I do not know what you can call it,” returned 
her husband, sharply. “They have always had that dis- 
mal black melancholy in that family — that detestable love 
of secretly piling up money, while their faces are as grave 
and sour as any Jew’s in the Ghetto.” 

Corona glanced at her husband, and smiled faintly as 
she looked at his thin old features, where the lights and 
shadows were touched in with delicate colour more art- 
fully than any actress’s, superficially concealing the lines 
traced by years of affectation and refined egotism ; and 
she thought of Giovanni’s strong manly face, passionate 
indeed, but noble and bold. A moment later she reso- 
lutely put the comparison out of her mind, and finding 
that her husband was inclined to abuse the Saracinesca, 
she tried to turn the conversation. 

“ I suppose it will be a great ball at the Frangipani’s,” 
she said. “We will go, of course?” she added, inter- 
rogatively. 

“Of course. I would not miss it for all the world. 
There has not been such a ball for years as that will be. 
Do I ever miss an opportunity of enjoying myself — I 
mean, of letting you enjoy yourself ? ” 

“ No, you are very good,” said Corona, gently. “ Indeed 
I sometimes think you give yourself trouble about going 
out on my account. Really, I am not so greedy of society. 
I would often gladly stay at home if you wished it.” 

“ Do you think I am past enjoying the world, then ? ” 
asked the old man, sourly. 

“No indeed,” replied Corona, patiently. “ Why should 
I think that ? I see how much you like going out.” 

“ Of course I like it. A rational man in the prime of 
life always likes to see his fellow-creatures. Why should 
not I?” 


54 


SARACINESCA. 


The Duchessa did not smile. She was used to hearing 
her aged husband speak of himself as young. It was a 
harmless fancy. 

“I think it is quite natural,” she said. 

“What I cannot understand,” said Astrardente, muf- 
fling his thin throat more closely against the keen bright 
tramontana wind, “ is that such old fellows as Saracinesca 
should still want to play a part in the world.” 

Saracinesca was younger than Astrardente, and his iron 
constitution bade fair to outlast another generation, in 
spite of his white hair. 

“You do not seem to be in a good humour with Sara- 
cinesca to-day,” remarked Corona, by way of answer. 

“ Why do you defend him ? ” asked her husband, in a 
new fit of irritation. “He jars on my nerves, the sour 
old creature ! ” 

“I fancy all Koine will go to the Frangipani ball,” 
began Corona again, without heeding the old man’s petu- 
lance. 

“ You seem to be interested in it,” returned Astrardente. 

Corona was silent ; it was her only weapon when he 
became petulant. He hated silence, and generally re- 
turned to the conversation with more suavity. Perhaps, 
in his great experience, he really appreciated his wife’s 
wonderful patience with his moods, and it is certaii} that 
he was exceedingly fond of her. 

“You must have a new gown, my dear,” he said pres- 
ently, in a conciliatory tone. 

His wife passed for the best-dressed woman in Koine, as 
she was undeniably the most remarkable in many other 
ways. She was not above taking an interest in dress, and 
her old husband had an admirable taste; moreover, he 
took a vast pride in her appearance, and if she had looked 
a whit less superior to other women, his smiling boast 
that she was above suspicion would have lost some of 
its force. 

“ I hardly think it is necessary,” said Corona ; “ I have 
so many things, and it will be a great crowd.” 


SARACINESCA. 


55 


“ My dear, be economical of your beauty, but not in your 
adornment of it,” said the old man, with one of his engag- 
ing grins. “ I desire that you have a new gown for this 
ball which will be remembered by every one who goes to 
it. You must set about it at once.” 

"Well, that is an easy request for any woman to 
grant,” answered Corona, with a little laugh ; “ though I 
do not believe my gown will be remembered so long as 
you think.” 

“ Who knows — who knows ? ” said Astrardente, 
thoughtfully. “ I remember gowns I saw ” — he checked 
himself — “why, as many as ten years ago!” he added, 
laughing in his turn, perhaps at nearly having said forty 
for ten. “ Gowns, my dear,” he continued, “ make a pro- 
found impression upon men’s minds.” 

“ For the matter of that,” said the Duchessa, “ I do not 
care to impress men at all, nor women either.” She spoke 
lightly, pleased that the conversation should have taken 
a more pleasant turn. 

“ Not even to impress me, my dear ? ” asked old Astrar- 
dente, with a leer. 

“ That is different,” answered Corona, quietly. 

So they talked upon the subject of the gown and the 
ball until the carriage rolled under the archway of the 
Astrardente palace. But when it was three o’clock, and 
Corona was at liberty to go out upon her usual round of 
visits, she was glad that she could go alone ; and as she 
sat among her cushions, driving from house to house and 
distributing cards, she had time to think seriously of her 
situation. It would seem a light thing to most wives of 
aged husbands to have taken a fancy to a man such as 
Giovanni Saracinesca. But the more Corona thought of 
it, the more certain it appeared to her that she was com- 
mitting a great sin. It weighed heavily upon her mind, 
and took from her the innocent pleasure she was wont to 
feel in driving in the bright evening air in the Villa Bor- 
ghese. It took the colour from the sky, and the softness 
from the cushions ; it haunted her and made her miserably 


56 


SARACINESCA. 


unhappy. At every turn she expected to see Giovanni’s 
figure and face, and the constant recurrence of the thought 
seemed to add magnitude to the crime of which she accused 
herself, — the crime of even thinking of any man save her 
old husband — of wishing that Giovanni might not marry 
Donna Tullia after all. 

“ I will go to Padre Filippo,” she said to herself as she 
reached home. 


CHAPTER Y. 

Valdarno took Donna Tullia by his side upon the front 
seat of the drag ; and as luck would have it, Giovanni and 
Del Ferice sat together behind them. Half-a-dozen other 
men found seats somewhere, and among them were the 
melancholy Spicca, who was a famous duellist, and a cer- 
tain Casalverde, a man of rather doubtful reputation. The 
others were members of what Donna Tullia called her 
“ corps de ballet.” In those days Donna Tullia’s conduct 
was criticised, and she was thought to be emancipated, as 
the phrase went. Old people opened their eyes at the 
spectacle of the gay young widow going off into the Cam- 
pagna to picnic with a party of men ; but if any intimate 
enemy had ventured to observe to her that she was giving 
occasion for gossip, she would have raised her eyebrows, 
explaining that they were all just like her brothers, and 
that Giovanni was indeed a sort of cousin. She would per- 
haps have condescended to say that she would not have 
done such a thing in Paris, but that in dear old Rome one 
was in the bosom of one’s family, and might do anything. 
At present she sat chatting with Valdarno, a tall and fair 
young man, with a weak mouth and a good-natured dis- 
position : she had secured Giovanni, and though he sat 
sullenly smoking behind her, his presence gave her satis- 
faction. Del Fence’s smooth face wore an expression of 
ineffable calm, and his watery blue eyes gazed languidly 


SARACINESCA. 57 

on the broad stretch of brown grass which bordered the 
highroad. 

For some time the drag bowled along, and Giovanni 
was left to his own reflections, which were not of a very 
pleasing kind. The other men talked of the chances of 
luck with the hounds ; and Spicca, who had been a great 
deal in England, occasionally put in a remark not very 
complimentary to the Koman hunt. Del Ferice listened 
in silence, and Giovanni did not listen at all, but buttoned 
his overcoat to the throat, half closed his eyes, and 
smoked one cigarette after another, leaning back in his 
seat. Suddenly Donna Tullia’s laugh was heard as she 
turned half round to look at Yaldarno. 

“ Do you really think so ? ” she cried. “ How soon ? 
What a dance we will lead them then ! ” 

Del Ferice • pricked his ears in the direction of her 
voice, like a terrier that suspects the presence of a rat. 
Valdarno’s answer was inaudible, but Donna Tullia 
ceased laughing immediately. 

“ They are talking politics,” said Del Ferice in a low 
voice, leaning towards Giovanni as he spoke. The latter 
shrugged his shoulders and went on -smoking. He did 
not care to be drawn into a conversation with Del Ferice. 

Del Ferice was a man who was suspected of revolu- 
tionary sympathies by the authorities in Eome^ but who 
was not feared. He was therefore allowed to live his 
life much as he pleased, though he was conscious from 
time to time that he was watched. Being a man, how- 
ever, who under all circumstances pursued his own inter- 
ests with more attention than he bestowed on those of 
any party, he did not pretend to attach any importance 
to the distinction of being occasionally followed by a 
spy, as a more foolish man might have done. If he was 
watched, he did not care to exhibit himself to his friends 
as a martyr, to tell stories of the sbirro who sometimes 
dogged his footsteps, nor to cry aloud that he was un- 
justly persecuted. He affected a character above suspi- 
cion, and rarely allowed himself to express an opinion. 


58 


SARACINESCA. 


He was no propagator of new doctrines; that was too 
dangerous a trade for one of his temper. But he foresaw 
changes to come, and he determined that he would profit 
by them. He had little to lose, but he had everything to 
gain ; and being a patient man, he resolved to gain all 
he could by circumspection — in other words, by acting 
according to his nature, rather than by risking himself 
in a bold course of action for which he was wholly un- 
suited. He was too wise to attempt wholly to deceive 
the authorities, knowing well that they were not easily 
deceived; and he accordingly steered a middle course, 
constantly speaking in favour of progress, of popular 
education, and of freedom of the press, but at the same 
time loudly proclaiming that all these things — that every 
benefit of civilisation, in fact — could be obtained without 
the slightest change in the form of government. He 
thus asserted his loyalty to the temporal power while 
affecting a belief in the possibility of useful reforms, and 
the position he thus acquired exactly suited his own 
ends ; for he attracted to himself a certain amount of 
suspicion on account of his progressist professions, and 
then disarmed that suspicion by exhibiting a serene in- 
difference to the espionage of which he was the object. 
The consequence was, that at the very time when he was 
most deeply implicated in much more serious matters — 
of which the object was invariably his own ultimate profit 
— at the time when he was receiving money for informa- 
tion he was able to obtain through his social position, he 
was regarded by the authorities, and by most of his 
acquaintances, as a harmless man, who might indeed 
injure himself by his foolish doctrines of progress, but 
who certainly could not injure any one else. Few guessed 
that his zealous attention to social duties, his occasional 
bursts of enthusiasm for liberal education and a free 
press, were but parts of his machinery for making money 
out of politics. He was so modest, so unostentatious, 
that no one suspected that the mainspring of his exist- 
ence was the desire for money. 


SARACINESCA. 


59 


But, like many intelligent and bad men, Del Ferice had 
a weakness which was gradually gaining upon him and 
growing in force, and which was destined to hasten the 
course of the events which he had planned for himself. 
It is an extraordinary peculiarity in unbelievers that 
they are often more subject to petty superstitions than 
other men ; and similarly, it often happens that the most 
cynical and coldly calculating of conspirators, who be- 
lieve themselves proof against all outward influences, 
yield to some feeling of nervous dislike for an individual 
who has never harmed them, and are led on from dislike 
to hatred, until their soberest actions take colour from 
what in its earliest beginnings was nothing more than a 
senseless prejudice. Del Fence’s weakness was his 
unaccountable detestation of Giovanni Saracinesca; and 
he had so far suffered this abhorrence of the man to dom- 
inate his existence, that it had come to be one of his 
chiefest delights in life to thwart Giovanni wherever 
he could. How it had begun, or when, he no longer 
knew nor cared. He had perhaps thought Giovanni 
treated him superciliously, or even despised him; and 
his antagonism being roused by some fancied slight, he 
had shown a petty resentment, which, again, Saracinesca 
had treated with cold indifference. Little by little his 
fancied grievance had acquired great proportions in his 
own estimation, and he had learned to hate Giovanni 
more than any man living. At first it might have 
seemed an easy matter to ruin his adversary, or, at all 
event, to cause him great and serious injury; and but 
for that very indifference which Del Ferice so resented, 
his attempts might have been successful. 

Giovanni belonged to a family who from the earliest 
times had been at swords-drawn with the Government. 
Their property had been more than once confiscated by the 
popes, had been seized again by force of arms, and had 
been ultimately left to them for the mere sake of peace. 
They seem to have quarrelled with everybody on every 
conceivable pretext, and to have generally got the best of 


60 


SARACINESCA. 


the struggle. No pope had ever reckoned upon the 
friendship of Casa Saracinesca. For generations they had 
headed the opposition whenever there was one, and had 
plotted to form one when there was none ready to their 
hands. It seemed to Del Ferice that in the stirring 
times that followed the annexation of Naples to the 
Italian crown, when all Europe was watching the growth 
of the new Power, it should be an easy matter to draw a 
Saracinesca into any scheme for the subversion of a 
Government against which so many generations of Saraci- 
nesca had plotted and fought. To involve Giovanni in 
some Liberal conspiracy, and then by betraying him to 
cause him to be imprisoned or exiled from Pome, was a 
plan which pleased Del Ferice, and which he desired 
earnestly to put into execution. He had often tried to 
lead his enemy into conversation, repressing and hiding 
his dislike for the sake of his end ; but at the first men- 
tion of political subjects Giovanni became impenetrable, 
shrugged his shoulders, and assumed an air of the utmost 
indifference. No paradox could draw him into argument, 
no flattery could loose his tongue. Indeed those were 
times when men hesitated to express an opinion, not only 
because any opinion they might express was liable to be 
exaggerated and distorted by willing enemies — a consid- 
eration which would not have greatly intimidated Gio- 
vanni Saracinesca — but also because it was impossible 
for the wisest man to form any satisfactory judgment 
upon the course of events. It was clear to every one 
that ever since 1848 the temporal power had been sus- 
tained by France ; and though no one in 1865 foresaw the 
downfall of the Second Empire, no one saw any reason 
for supposing that the military protectorate of Louis 
Napoleon in Koine could last for ever : what would be 
likely to occur if that protection were withdrawn was 
indeed a matter of doubt, but was not looked upon by the 
Government as a legitimate matter for speculation. 

Del Ferice, however, did not desist from his attempts 
to make Giovanni speak out his mind, and whenever an 


SARACINESCA. 


61 


opportunity offered, tried to draw him into conversation. 
He was destined on the present occasion to meet with 
greater success than had hitherto attended his efforts. 
The picnic was noisy, and Giovanni was in a bad humour ; 
he did not care for Donna Tullia’ s glances, nor for the re- 
marks she constantly levelled at him ; still less was he 
amused by the shallow gaiety of her party of admirers, 
tempered as their talk was by the occasional tonic of 
some outrageous cynicism from the melancholy Spicca. 
Del Ferice smiled, and talked, and smiled again, seeking 
to flatter and please Donna Tullia, as was his wont. By- 
and-by the clear north wind and the bright sun dried 
the ground, and Madame Mayer proposed that the party 
should walk a little on the road towards Rome — a proposal 
of such startling originality that it was carried by accla- 
mation. Donna Tullia wanted to walk with Giovanni ; but 
on pretence of having left something upon the drag, he 
gave Valdarno time to take his place. When Giovanni 
began to follow the rest, he found that Del Ferice had 
lagged behind, and seemed to be waiting for him. 

Giovanni was in a bad humour that day. He had suf- 
fered himself to be persuaded into joining in a species of 
amusement for which he cared nothing, by a mere word 
from a woman for whom he cared less, but whom he had 
half determined to marry, and who had wholly deter- 
mined to marry him. He, who hated vacillation, had 
been dangling for four-and-twenty hours like a pendu- 
lum, or, as he said to himself, like an ass between two 
bundles of hay. At one moment he meant to marry 
Donna Tullia, and at another he loathed the thought ; 
now he felt that he would make any sacrifice to rid the 
Duchessa d’Astrardente of himself, and now again he 
felt how futile such a sacrifice would be. He was 
ashamed in his heart, for he was no boy of twenty to be 
swayed by a woman’s look or a fit of Quixotism ; he was 
a strong grown man who had seen the world. He had 
been in the habit of supposing his impulses to be good, 
and of following them naturally without much thought; 


62 


SARACINESCA. 


it seemed desperately perplexing to be forced into an 
analysis of those impulses in order to decide what he 
should do. He was in a thoroughly bad humour, and 
Del Ferice guessed that if Giovanni could ever be in- 
duced to speak out, it must be when his temper was not 
under control. In Eome, in the club — there was only 
one club in those days — in society, Ugo never got a 
chance to talk to his enemy ; but here upon the Appian 
Way, with the broad Campagna stretching away to right 
and left and rear, while the remainder of the party 
walked three hundred yards in front, and Giovanni 
showed an evident reluctance to join them, it would go 
hard indeed if he could not be led into conversation. 

“ I should think,” Del Ferice began, “ that if you had 
your choice, you would walk anywhere rather than here.” 

“ Why ? ” asked Giovanni, carelessly. “ It is a very 
good road.” 

“ I should think that our Roman Campagna would be 
anything but a source of satisfaction to its possessors — 
like yourself,” answered Del Ferice. 

“ It is a very good grazing ground.” 

“ It might be something better. When one thinks that 
in ancient times it was a vast series of villas ” 

.“The conditions were very different. We do not live 
in ancient times,” returned Giovanni, drily. 

“Ah, the conditions!” ejaculated Del Ferice, with a 
suave sigh. “Surely the conditions depend on man — not 
on nature. What our proud forefathers accomplished by 
law and energy, we could, we can . accomplish, if we 
restore law and energy in our midst.” 

“You are entirely mistaken,” answered Saracinesca. 
“It would take five times the energy of the ancient 
Romans to turn the Campagna into a garden, or even 
into a fertile productive region. No one is five times as 
energetic as the ancients. As for the laws, they do well 
enough.” 

Del Ferice was delighted. For the first time, Giovanni 
seemed inclined to enter upon an argument with him. 


SARACINESCA. 


63 


“Why are the conditions so different? I do not 
see. Here is the same undulating country, the same cli- 
mate ” 

“And twice as much water,” interrupted Giovanni. 
“You forget that the Campagna is very low, and that the 
rivers in it have risen very much. There are parts of 
ancient Rome now laid bare which lie below the present 
water-mark of the Tiber. If the city were built upon its 
old level, much of it would be constantly flooded. The 
rivers have risen and have swamped the country. Do 
you think any amount of law or energy could drain this 
fever-stricken plain into the sea ? I do not. Do you think 
that if I could be persuaded that the land could be im- 
proved into fertility I would hesitate, at any expenditure 
in my power, to reclaim the miles of desert my father 
and I own here ? The plain is a series of swamps and 
stone quarries. In one place you find the rock a foot 
below the surface, and the soil burns up in summer; 
a hundred yards farther you find a bog hundreds of feet 
deep, which even in summer is never dry.” 

“ But,” suggested Del Ferice, who listened patiently 
enough, “supposing the Government passed a law forc- 
ing all of you proprietors to plant trees and dig ditches, 
it would have some effect.” 

“ The law cannot force us to sacrifice men’s lives. The 
Trappist monks at the Tre Fontane are trying it, and 
dying by scores. Do you think I, or any other Roman, 
would send peasants to such a place, or could induce 
them to go ? ” 

“ Well, it is one of a great many questions which will 
be settled some day,” said Del Ferice. “You will not 
deny that there is room for much improvement in our 
country, and that an infusion of some progressist ideas 
would be wholesome.” 

“ Perhaps so ; but you understand one thing by progress, 
and I understand quite another,” replied Giovanni, eyeing 
in the bright distance the figures of Donna Tullia and her 
friends, and regulating his pace so as not to lessen the dis- 


64 


SAltACINESCA. 


tance which separated them from him. He preferred talk- 
ing political economy with a man he disliked, to being 
obliged to make conversation for Madame Mayer. 

“I mean by progress, positive improvement without 
revolutionary change,” explained Del Ferice, using the 
phrase he had long since constructed as his profession of 
faith to the world. Giovanni eyed him keenly for a 
moment. He cared nothing for Ugo or his ideas, but he 
suspected him of very different principles. 

“ You will pardon me,” he said, civilly, “ if I venture to 
doubt whether you have frankly expressed your vi£ws. I 
am under the impression that you really connect the idea of 
improvement with a very positive revolutionary change.” 

Del Ferice did not wince, but he involuntarily cast a 
glance behind him. Those were times when people were 
cautious of being overheard. But Del Ferice knew his 
man, and he knew that the only way in which he could 
continue the interview was to accept the imputation as 
though trusting implicitly to the discretion of his com- 
panion. 

“Will you give me a fair answer to a fair question?” 
he asked, very gravely. 

“Let me hear the question,” returned Giovanni, indif- 
ferently. He also knew his man, and attached no more 
belief to anything he said than to the chattering of a 
parrot. And yet Del Ferice had not the reputation of a 
liar in the world at large. 

“Certainly,” answered Ugo. “You are the heir of a 
family which from immemorial time has opposed the 
popes. You cannot be supposed to feel any kind of loyal 
attachment to the temporal power. I do not know whether 
you individually would support it or not. But frankly, 
how would you regard such a revolutionary change as 
you suspect me of desiring ? ” 

“'I have no objection to telling you that. I would 
simply make the best of it.” 

Del Ferice laughed at the ambiguous answer, affecting 
to consider it as a mere evasion. 


SARACINESCA. 


65 


“We should all try to do that,” he answered; “but what 
I mean to ask is, whether you would personally take up 
arms to fight for the temporal power, or whether you 
would allow events to take their course ? I fancy that 
would be the ultimate test of loyalty.” 

“My instinct would certainly be to fight, whether fight- 
ing were of any use or not. But the propriety of fighting 
in such a case is a very nice question of judgment. So 
long as there is anything to fight for, no matter how hope- 
less the odds, a gentleman should go to the front — but no 
longer. The question must be to decide the precise point 
at which the position becomes untenable. So long as 
France makes our quarrels hers, every man should give 
his personal assistance to the cause ; but it is absurd to 
suppose that if we were left alone, a handful of Romans 
against a great Power, we could do more, or should do 
more^ than make a formal show of resistance. It has been 
a rule in all ages that a general, however brave, who sacri- 
fices the lives of his soldiers in a perfectly hopeless resist- 
ance, rather than accept the terms of an honourable 
capitulation, is guilty of a military crime.” 

“In other words,” answered Del Ferice, quietly, “if the 
French troops were withdrawn, and the Italians were be- 
sieging Rome, you would at once capitulate ? ” 

“ Certainly — after making a formal protest. It would 
be criminal to sacrifice our fellow-citizens’ lives in such a 
case.” 

“And then ? ” 

“ Then, as I said before, I would make the best of it — 
not omitting to congratulate Del Ferice upon obtaining a 
post in the new Government,” added Giovanni, with a 
laugh. 

But Del Ferice took no notice of the jest. 

“Do you not think that, aside from any question of 
sympathy or loyalty to the holy Father, the change of 
government would be an immense advantage to Rome ?” 

“No, I do not. To Italy the advantage would be in- 
estimable ; to Rome it would be an injury. Italy would 


66 


SARACINESCA. 


consolidate the prestige she began to acquire when Cavour 
succeeded in sending a handful of troops to the Crimea 
eleven years ago ; she would at once take a high position 
as a European Power — provided always that the smould- 
ering republican element should not break out in opposi- 
tion to the constitutional monarchy. But Borne would be 
ruined. She is no longer the geographical capital of 
Italy — she is not even the largest city ; but in the course 
of a few years, violent efforts would be made to give her 
a fictitious modern grandeur, in the place of the moral 
importance she now enjoys as the headquarters of the 
Catholic world. Those efforts at a spurious growth 
would ruin her financially, and the hatred of Bomans for 
Italians of the north would cause endless internal dis- 
sension. We should be subjected to a system of taxation 
which would fall more heavily on us than on other Ital- 
ians, in proportion as our land is less productive. On 
the whole, we should grow rapidly poorer; for prices 
would rise, and we should have a paper currency instead 
of a metallic one. Especially we landed proprietors 
would suffer terribly by the Italian land system being 
suddenly thrust upon us. To be obliged to sell one’s 
acres to any peasant who can scrape together enough to 
capitalise the pittance he now pays as rent, at five per 
cent, would scarcely be agreeable. Such a fellow, from 
whom I have the greatest difficulty in extracting his 
yearly bushel of grain, could borrow twenty bushels from 
a neighbour, or the value of them, and buy me out with- 
out my consent — acquiring land worth ten times the rent 
he and his father have paid for it, and his father before 
him. It would produce an extraordinary state of things, 
I can assure you. No — even putting aside what you call 
my sympathies and my loyalty to the Pope — I do not 
desire any change. Nobody who owns much property 
does ; the revolutionary spirits are people who own 
nothing.” 

“On the other hand, those who own nothing, or next 
to nothing, are the great majority.” 


SARACINESCA. 


67 


“ Even if that is true, which I doubt, I do not see why 
the intelligent few should be ruled by that same ignorant 
majority .’ 7 

“But you forget that the majority is to be educated,” 
objected Del Ferice. 

“ Education is a term few people can define,” returned 
Giovanni. “ Any good schoolmaster knows vastly more 
than you or I. Would you like to be governed by a 
majority of schoolmasters ? ” 

“ That is a plausible argument,” laughed Del Ferice, 
“ but it is not sound.” 

“ It is not sound ! ” repeated Giovanni, impatiently. 
“ People are so fond of exclaiming that what they do not 
like is not sound ! Do you think that it would not be 
a fair case to put five hundred schoolmasters against five 
hundred gentlemen of average education? I think it 
would be very fair. The schoolmasters would certainly 
have the advantage in education : do you mean to say they 
would make better or wiser electors than the same num- 
ber of gentlemen who cannot name all the cities and rivers 
in Italy, nor translate a page of Latin without a mistake, 
but who understand the conditions of property by practi- 
cal experience as no schoolmaster can possibly understand 
them ? I tell you it is nonsense. Education, of the kind 
which is of any practical value in the government of a 
nation, means the teaching of human motives, of human- 
ising ideas, of some system whereby the majority of 
electors can distinguish the qualities of honesty and 
common-sense in the candidate they wish to elect. I do 
not pretend to say what that system may be, but I assert 
that no education which does not lead to that kind of 
knowledge is of any practical use to the voting majority 
of a constitutionally governed country.” 

Del Ferice sighed rather sadly. 

“I am afraid you will not discover that system in 
Europe,” he said. He was disappointed in Giovanni, 
and in his hopes of detecting in him some signs of a 
revolutionary spirit. Saracinesca was a gentleman of 


68 


SARACINESCA. 


the old school, who evidently despised majorities and 
modern political science as a whole, who for the sake of 
his own interests desired no change from the Govern- 
ment under which he lived, and who would surely be the 
first to draw the sword for the temporal power, and 
the last to sheathe it. His calm judgment concerning 
the fallacy of holding a hopeless position would vanish 
like smoke if his fiery blood were once roused. He was 
so honest a man that even Del Ferice could not suspect 
him of parading views he did not hold; and Ugo then 
and there abandoned all idea of bringing him into politi- 
cal trouble and disgrace, though he by no means gave up 
all hope of being able to ruin him in some other way. 

“ I agree with you there at least,” said Saracinesca. 
“ The only improvements worth having are certainly not 
to be found in Europe. Donna Tullia is calling us. We 
had better join that harmless flock of lambs, and give 
over speculating on the advantages of allying ourselves 
with a pack of wolves who will eat us up, house and 
home, bag and baggage.” 

So the whole party climbed again to their seats upon the 
drag, and Valdarno drove them back into Rome by the 
Porta San Giovanni. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Corona d’Astrardente had been educated in a convent — 
that is to say, she had been brought up in the strict prac- 
tice of her religion ; and during the five years which had 
elapsed since she had come out into the world, she had 
found no cause for forsaking the habits she had acquired 
Tnher girlhood. Some people find religion a burden ; 
others regard it as an indifferently useless institution, in 
which they desire no share, and concerning which they 
never trouble themselves ; others, again, look upon it as 
the mainstay of their lives. 


SARACINESCA. 


69 


It is natural to suppose that the mode of thought and 
the habits acquired by young girls in a religious institution 
will not disappear without a trace when they first go into 
the world, and it may even be expected that some memory 
of the early disposition thus cultivated will cling to them 
throughout their lives. But the multifarious interests of 
social existence do much to shake that young edifice of 
faith. The driving strength of stormy passions of all 
kinds undermines the walls of the fabric, and when at 
last the bolt of adversity strikes full upon the keystone 
of the arch, upon the self of man or woman, weakened 
and loosened by the tempests of years, the whole palace 
of the soul falls in, a hopeless wreck, wherein not even the 
memory of outline can be traced, nor the faint shadow of 
a beauty which is destroyed for ever. 

But there are some whose interests in this world are not 
strong enough to shake their faith in the next; whose pas- 
sions do not get the mastery, and whose self is sheltered 
from danger by something more than the feeble defence of 
an accomplished egotism. Corona was one of these, for her 
lot had not been happy, nor her path strewn with roses. 

She was a friendless woman, destined to suffer much, 
and her suffering was the more intense that she seemed 
always upon the point of finding friends in the world where 
she played so conspicuous a part. There can be little hap- 
piness when a whole life has been placed upon a false 
foundation, even though so dire a mistake may have been 
committed willingly and from a sense of duty and obliga- 
tion, such as drove Corona to marry old Astrardente. Con- 
solation is not satisfaction ; and though, when she reflected 
on what she had done, she knew that from her point of 
view she had done her best, she knew also that she had 
closed upon herself the gates of the earthly paradise, and 
that for her the prospect of happiness had been removed^ 
from the now to the hereafter — the dim and shadowy aiass 
in which we love to see any reflection save that of our pres- 
ent lives. And to her, thus living in submission to the con- 
sequences of her choice, that faith in things better which 


70 


SARACINESCA. 


had inspired her to sacrifice was the chief remaining source 
of consolation. There was a good man to whom she went 
for advice, as she had gone to him ever since she could 
remember. When she found herself in trouble she never 
hesitated. Padre Filippo was to her the living proof of 
the possibility of human goodness, as faith is to us all 
the evidence of things not seen. 

Corona was in trouble now — in a trouble so new that 
she hardly understood it, so terrible and yet so vague that 
she felt her peril imminent. She did not hesitate, there- 
fore, nor change her mind upon the morning following the 
day of the meet, but drove to the church of the Capuchins 
in the Piazza Barberini, and went up the broad steps with 
a beating heart, not knowing how she should tell what 
she meant to tell, yet knowing that there was for her no 
hope of peace unless she told it quickly, and got that 
advice and direction she so earnestly craved. 

Padre Filippo had been a man of the world in his time 
— a man of great cultivation, full of refined tastes and 
understanding of tastes in others, gentle and courteous 
in his manners, and very kind of heart. No one knew 
whence he came. He spoke Italian correctly and with 
a keen scholarly use of words, but his slight accent be- 
trayed his foreign birth. He had been a Capuchin monk 
for many years, perhaps for more than half his lifetime, 
and Corona could remember him from her childhood, for 
he had been a friend of her father’s ; but he had not been 
consulted about her marriage, — she even remembered that, 
though she had earnestly desired to see him before the 
wedding-day, her father had told her that he had left 
Pome for a time. For the old gentleman was in terrible 
earnest about the match, so that in his heart he feared 
lest Corona might waver and ask Padre Filippo’s advice ; 
and he knew the good monk too well to think that he 
would give his countenance to such a sacrifice as was con- 
templated in marrying the young girl to old Astrardente. 
Corona had known this later, but had hardly realised the 
selfishness of her father, nor indeed had desired to realise 


SARACINESCA. 


71 


it. It was sufficient that he had died satisfied in seeing 
her married to a great noble, and that she had been able, 
in his last days, to relieve him from the distress of debt 
and embarrassment which had doubtless contributed to 
shorten his life. 

The proud woman who had thus once humbled herself 
for an object she thought good, had never referred to her 
action again. She had never spoken of her position to 
Padre Pilippo, so that the monk wondered and admired 
her steadfastness. If she suffered, it was in silence, with- 
out comment and without complaint, and so she would 
have suffered to the end. But it had been ordered other- 
wise. For months she had known that the interest she 
felt in Giovanni Saracinesca was increasing: she had 
choked it down, had done all in her power to prove her- 
self indifferent to him ; but at last the crisis had come. 
When he spoke to her of his marriage, she had felt — she 
knew now that it was so — that she loved him. The very 
word, as she repeated it to herself, rang like an awful, 
almost incomprehensible, accusation of evil in her ears. 
One moment she stood at the top of the steps outside the 
church, looking down at the bare straggling trees below, 
and upward to the grey sky, against which the lofty eaves 
of the Palazzo Barberini stood out sharply defined. The 
weather had changed again, and a soft southerly wind 
was blowing the spray of the fountain half across the 
piazza. Corona paused, her graceful figure half lean- 
ing against the stone doorpost of the church, her hand 
upon the heavy leathern curtain in the act to lift it ; and 
as she stood there, a desperate temptation assailed her. 
It seemed desperate to her — to many another woman it 
would have appeared only the natural course to pursue — 
to turn her back upon the church, to put off the hard 
moment of confession, to go down again into the city, and 
to say to herself that there was no harm in seeing Don 
Giovanni, provided she never let him speak of love. Why 
should he speak of it ? Had she any reason to suppose 
there was danger to her in anything he meant to say ? 


72 


SAHACINESCA. 


Had he ever, by word or deed, betrayed that interest in 
her which she knew in herself was love for him ? Had 
he ever ? — ah yes ! It was only the night before last that 
he had asked her advice, had besought her to advise him 
not to marry another, had suffered his arm to tremble 
when she laid her hand upon it. In the quick remem- 
brance that he too had shown some feeling, there was a 
sudden burst of joy such as Corona had never felt, and a 
moment later she knew it and was afraid. It was true, 
then. At the very time when she was most oppressed 
with the sense of her fault in loving him, there was an 
inward rejoicing in her heart at the bare thought that she 
loved him. Could a woman fall lower, she asked herself 
— lower than to delight in what she knew to be most bad ? 
And yet it was such a poor little thrill of pleasure after 
all ; but it was the first she had ever known. To turn 
away and reflect for a few days would be so easy ! It 
would be so sweet to think of it, even though the excuse 
for thinking of Giovanni should be a good determination 
to root him from her life. It would be so sweet to drive 
again alone among the trees that very afternoon, and to 
weigh the salvation of her soul in the balance of her heart : 
her heart would know how to turn the scales, surely 
enough. Corona stood still, holding the curtain in her 
hand. She was a brave woman, but she turned pale — not 
hesitating, she said to herself, but pausing. Then, sud- 
denly, a great scorn of herself arose in her. Was it worthy 
of her even to pause in doing right ? The nobility of her 
courage cried loudly to her to go in and do the thing most 
worthy : her hand lifted the heavy leathern apron, and 
she entered the church. 

The air within was heavy and moist, and the grey light 
fell coldly through the tall windows. Corona shuddered, 
and drew her furs more closely about her as she passed 
up the aisle to the door of the sacristy. She found the 
monk she sought, and she made her confession. 

“ Padre mio,” she said at last, when the good man 
thought she had finished — “ Padre mio, I am a very mis- 


SARACINESCA. 


73 


erable woman.” She hid her dark face in her ungloved 
hands, and one by one the crystal tears welled from her 
eyes and trickled down upon her small fingers and upon 
the worn black wood of the confessional. 

“ My daughter,”' said the good monk, “ I will pray for 
you, others will pray for you — but before all things, you 
must pray for yourself. And let me advise you, my 
child, that as we are all led into temptation, we must 
not think that because we have been in temptation we 
have sinned hopelessly ; nor, if we have fought against 
the thing that tempts us, should we at once imagine that 
we have overcome it,. and have done altogether right. If 
there were no evil in ourselves, there could be no temp- 
tation from without, for nothing evil could seem pleasant. 
But with you I cannot find that you have done any great 
wrong as yet. You must take courage. We are all in 
the world, and do what we may, we cannot disregard it. 
The sin you see is real, but it is yet not very near you 
since you so abhor it ; and if you pray that you may hate 
it, it will go further from you till you may hope not even 
to understand how it could once have been so near. Take 
courage — take comfort. Do not be morbid. Resist temp- 
tation, but do not analyse it nor yourself too closely ; for 
it is one of the chief signs of evil in us that when we 
dwell to much upon ourselves and upon our temptations, 
we ourselves seem good in our own eyes, and our tempta- 
tions not unpleasant, because the very resisting of them 
seems to make us appear better than we are.” 

But the tears still flowed from Corona’s eyes in the dark 
corner of the church, and she could not be comforted. 

“ Padre mio,” she repeated, “ I am very unhappy. I 
have not a friend in the world to whom I can speak. 
I have never seen my life before as I see it now. God 
forgive me, I have never loved my husband. I never 
knew what it meant to love. I was a mere child, a very 
innocent child, when I was married to him. I would have 
sought your advice, but they told me you were away* 
and I thought I was doing right in obeying my father.” 


T4 


SARACINESCA. 


Padre Filippo sighed. He had long known and under- 
stood why Corona had not been allowed to come to him 
at the most important moment of her life. 

“ My husband is very kind to me,” she continued in 
broken tones. “ He loves me in his way, but I do not 
love him. That of itself is a great sin. It seems to me 
as though I saw but one half of life, and saw it from the 
window of a prison ; and yet I am not imprisoned. I 
would that I were, for I should never have seen another 
man. I should never have heard his voice, nor seen his 
face, nor — nor loved him, as I do love him,” she sobbed. 

“ Hush, my daughter,” said the old monk, very gently. 
“You told me you had never spoken of love; that you 
were interested in him, indeed, but that you did not 
know ” 

“I know — I know now,” cried Corona, losing all control 
as the passionate tears flowed down. “ I could not say it 
— it seemed so dreadful — I love him with my whole self ! 
I can never get it out — it burns me. 0 God, I am so 
wretched ! ” 

Padre Filippo was silent for a while. It was a terrible 
case. He could not remember in all his experience to 
have known one more sad to contemplate, though his busi- 
ness was with the sins and the sorrows of the world. The 
beautiful woman kneeling outside his confessional was 
innocent — as innocent as a child, brave and faithful. 
She had sacrificed her whole life for her father, who 
had been little worthy of such devotion ; she had borne 
for years the suffering of being tied to an old man whom 
she could not help despising, however honestly she tried 
to conceal the fact from herself, however effectually she 
hid it from others. It was a wonder the disaster had 
not occurred before : it showed how loyal and true a 
woman she was, that, living in the very centre and 
midst of the world, admired and assailed by many, she 
should never in five years have so much as thought of 
any man beside her husband. A woman made for love 
and happiness, in the glory of beauty and youth, capable 


SARACLNESCA. 


75 


of such unfaltering determination in her loyalty, so good, 
so noble, so generous, — it seemed unspeakably pathetic 
to hear her weeping her heart out, and confessing that, 
after so many struggles and efforts and sacrifices, she 
had at last met the common fate of all humanity, and 
was become subject to love. What might have been her 
happiness was turned to dishonour; what should have 
been the pride of her young life was made a reproach. 

She would not fall. The grey-haired monk believed 
that, in his great knowledge of mankind. But she would 
suffer terribly, and it might be that others would suffer 
also. It was the consequence of an irretrievable error in 
the beginning, when it had seemed to the young girl just 
leaving the convent that the best protection against the 
world of evil into which she was to go would be the un- 
conditional sacrifice of herself. 

Padre Filippo was silent. He hoped that the passionate 
outburst of grief and self-reproach would pass, though he 
himself could find little enough to say. It was all too 
natural. What was he, he thought, that he should ex- 
plain away nature, and bid a friendless woman defy a 
power that has more than once overset the reckoning of 
the world ? He could bid her pray for help and strength, 
but he found it hard to argue the case with her; for he 
had to allow that his beautiful penitent was, after all, 
only experiencing what it might have been foretold that 
she must feel, and that, as far as he could see, she was 
struggling bravely against the dangers of her situation. 

Corona cried bitterly as she knelt there. It was a great 
relief to give way for a time to the whole violence of what 
she felt. It may be that in her tears there was a subtle 
instinctive knowledge that she was weeping for her love 
as well as for her sin in loving, but her grief was none 
the less real. She did not understand herself. She did 
not know, as Padre Filippo knew, that her woman’s 
heart was breaking for sympathy rather than for re- 
ligious counsel. She knew many women, but her noble 
pride would not have let her even contemplate the pos- 


76 


SAHACINESCA. 


sibility of confiding in any one of them, even if she 
could have done so in the certainty of not being herself 
betrayed and of not betraying the man she loved. She had 
been accustomed to come to her confessor for counsel, and 
she now came to him with her troubles and craved sympathy 
for them, in the knowledge that Padre Filippo could never 
know the name of the man who had disturbed her peace. 

But the monk understood well enough, and his kind 
heart comprehended hers and felt for her. 

“ My daughter / 7 he said at last, when she seemed to 
have grown more calm, “ it would be an inestimable ad- 
vantage if this man could go away for a time, but that is 
probably not to be expected. Meanwhile, you must not 
listen to him if he speaks 77 

“ It is not that / 7 interrupted Corona — “ it is not that. 
He never speaks of love. Oh, I really believe he does 
not love me at all ! 77 But in her heart she felt that he 
must love her; and her hand, as it lay upon the hard 
wood of the confessional, seemed still to feel his trem- 
bling arm. 

“That is so much the better, my child / 7 said the monk, 
quietly. “For if he does not love you, your temptations 
will not grow stronger . 77 

“And yet, perhaps — he may 77 murmured Corona, 

feeling that it would be wrong even to conceal hep faintest 
suspicions at such a time. 

“Let there be no perhaps / 7 answered Padre Filippo, 
almost sternly. “ Let it never enter your mind that he 
might love you. Think that even from the worldly point 
there is small dignity in a woman who exhibits love for a 
man who has never mentioned love to her. You have no 
reason to suppose you are loved save that you desire to 
be. Let there be no perhaps . 77 

The monk’s keen insight into character had given him 
an unexpected weapon in Corona’s defence. He knew how 
of all things a proud woman hates to know that where she 
has placed her heart there is no response, and that if she 
fails to awaken an affection akin to her own, what has been 


SARACINESCA. 


77 


love may be turned to loathing, or at least to indifference. 
The strong character of the Ducliessa d’Astrardente re- 
sponded to his touch as he expected. Her tears ceased 
to flow, and her scorn rose haughtily against herself. 

“It is true. I am despicable/’ she said, suddenly. “You 
have shown me myself. There shall be no perhaps. I 
loathe myself for thinking of it. Pray for me, lest I fall 
so low again.” 

A few minutes later Corona left the confessional and 
went and kneeled in the body of the church to collect her 
thoughts. She was in a very different frame of mind from 
that in which she had left home an hour ago. She hardly 
knew whether she felt herself a better woman, but she was 
sure that she was stronger. There was no desire left in 
her to meditate sadly upon her sorrow — to go over and 
over in her thoughts the feelings she experienced, the 
fears she felt, the half-formulated hope that Giovanni 
might love her after all. There was left only a haughty 
determination to have done with her folly quickly and 
surely, and to try and forget it for ever. The confessor’s 
words had produced their effect. Henceforth she would 
never stoop so low again. She was ready to go out into 
the world now, and she felt no fear. It was more from 
habit than for the sake of saying a prayer that she knelt 
in the church after her confession, for she felt very 
strong. She rose to her feet presently, and moved 
towards the door: she had not gone half the length of 
the church when she came face to face with Donna Tullia 
Mayer. 

It was a strange coincidence. The ladies of Rome 
frequently go to the church of the Capuchins, as Corona 
had done, to seek the aid and counsel of Padre Filippo, 
but Corona had never met Donna Tullia there. Madame 
Mayer did not profess to be very devout. As a matter of 
fact, she had not found it convenient to go to confession 
during the Christmas season, and she had been intending 
to make up for the deficiency for some time past ; but it is 
improbable that she would have decided upon fulfilling her 


78 


SARACINESCA. 


religious obligations before Lent if she had not chanced 
to see the Duchessa d’Astrardente’s carriage standing at 
the foot of the church steps. 

Donna Tullia had risen early because she was going to 
sit for her portrait to a young artist who lived in the 
neighbourhood of the Piazza Barberini, and as she passed 
in her brougham she caught sight of the Duchessa’s liv- 
eries. The artist could wait half an hour: the oppor- 
tunity was admirable. She was alone, and would not 
only do her duty in going to confession, but would have 
a chance of seeing how Corona looked when she had been 
at her devotions. It might also be possible to judge from 
Padre Filippo’s manner whether the interview had been 
an interesting one. The Astrardente was so very devout 
that she probably had difficulty in inventing sins to con- 
fess. One might perhaps tell from her face whether, she 
had felt any emotion. At all events the opportunity 
should not be lost. Besides, if Donna Tullia found that 
she herself was really not in a proper frame of mind for 
religious exercises, she could easily spend a few moments 
in the church and then proceed upon her way. She 
stopped her carriage and went in. She had just entered 
when she was aware of the tall figure of Corona d’ Astrar- 
dente coming towards her, magnificent in the •simplicity 
of her furs, a short veil just covering half her face, and 
an unwonted colour in her dark cheeks. 

Corona was surprised at meeting Madame Mayer, but 
she did not show it. She nodded with a sufficiently 
pleasant smile, and would have passed on. This would 
not have suited Donna Tullia’s intentions, however, for 
she meant to have a good look at her friend. It was not 
for nothing that she had made up her mind to go to con- 
fession at a moment’s notice. She therefore stopped 
the Duchessa, and insisted upon shaking hands. 

“ What an extraordinary coincidence ! ” she exclaimed. 
“ You must have been to see Padre Filippo too ? ” 

“ Yes,” answered Corona. “ You will find him in the 
sacristy.” She noticed that Madame Mayer regarded her 


SARAC1NESCA. 


79 


with great interest. Indeed she could hardly be aware 
how unlike her usual self she appeared. There were 
dark rings beneath her eyes, and her eyes themselves 
seemed to emit a strange light; while an unwonted 
colour illuminated her olive cheeks, and her voice had 
a curiously excited tone. Madame Mayer stared at her 
so hard that she noticed it. 

“ Why do you look at me like that ? ” asked the 
Duchessa, with a smile. 

“ I was wondering what in the world you could find to 
confess,” replied Donna Tullia, sweetly. “ You are so 
immensely good, you see ; everybody wonders at you.” 

Corona’s eyes flashed darkly. She suspected that 
Madame Mayer noticed something unusual in her ap- 
pearance, and had made the awkward speech to conceal 
her curiosity. She was annoyed at the meeting, still more 
at bejng detained in conversation within the church. 

“ It is very kind of you to invest me with such vir- 
tues,” she answered. “ I assure you I am not half so good 
as you suppose. Good-bye — I must be going home.” 

“ Stay ! ” exclaimed Donna Tullia ; “ I can go to con- 
fession another time. Will not you come with me to 
Gouache’s studio ? I am going to sit. It is such a bore 
to go alone.” 

“ Thank you very much,” said Corona, civilly. “ I am 
afraid I cannot go. My husband expects me at home. 
I wish you a good sitting.” 

“Well, good-bye. Oh, I forgot to tell you, we had 
such a charming picnic yesterday. It was so fortunate 
— the only fine day this week.' Giovanni was very amus- 
ing: he was completely en train, and kept us laughing 
the whole day. Good-bye ; I do so wish you had come.” 

“ I was very sorry,” answered Corona, quietly, “ but it 
was impossible. I am glad you all enjoyed it so much. 
Good-bye.” 

So they parted. 

“How she wishes that same husband of hers would 
follow the example of my excellent old Mayer, of blessed 


80 


SARACINESCA. 


memory, and take himself out of the world to-day or to- 
morrow ! ” thought Donna Tullia, as she walked up the 
church. 

She was sure something unusual had occurred, and she 
longed to fathom the mystery. But she was not alto- 
gether a bad woman, and when she had collected her 
thoughts she made up her mind that even by the utmost 
stretch of moral indulgence, she could not consider her- 
self in a proper state to undertake so serious a matter as 
confession. She therefore waited a few minutes, to give 
time for Corona to drive away, and then turned back. 
She cautiously pushed aside the curtain and looked out. 
The Astrardente carriage was just disappearing in the 
distance. Donna Tullia descended the steps, got into 
her brougham, and proceeded to the studio of Monsieur 
Anastase Gouache, the portrait-painter. She had not 
accomplished much, save to rouse her curiosity, and that 
parting thrust concerning Don Giovanni had been rather 
ill-timed. 

She drove to the door of the studio and found Del 
Ferice waiting for her as usual. If Corona had accom- 
panied her, she would have expressed astonishment at 
finding him; but, as a matter of fact, Ugo always met 
her there, and helped to pass the time while she was sit- 
ting. He was very amusing, and not altogether unsym- 
pathetic to her ; and moreover, he professed for her the 
most profound devotion — genuine, perhaps, and certainly 
skilfully expressed. If any one had paid much attention 
to Del Fence’s doings, it would have been said that he 
was paying court to the rich young widow. But he was 
never looked upon by society from the point of view of 
matrimonial possibility, and no one thought of attaching 
any importance to his doings. Nevertheless Ugo, who 
had been gradually rising in the social scale for many 
years, saw no reason why he should not win the hand of 
Donna Tullia as well as any one else, if only Giovanni 
Saracinesca could be kept out of the way ; and he devoted 
himself with becoming assiduity to the service of the 


SARACINESCA. 


81 


widow, while doing his utmost to promote Giovanni’s 
attachment for the Astrardente, which he had been the 
first to discover. Donna Tullia would probably have 
laughed to scorn the idea that Del Ferice could think of 
hiuiself seriously as a suitor, but of all her admirers she 
found him the most constant and the most convenient. 

“ What are the news this morning ? ” she asked, as he 
opened her carriage-door for her before the studio. 

“ None, save that I am your faithful slave as ever,” he 
answered. 

“I have just seen the Astrardente,” said Donna Tullia, 
still sitting in her seat. “ I will let you guess where it 
was that we met.” 

“ You met in the church of the Capuchins,” replied 
Del Ferice promptly, with a smile of satisfaction. 

“You are a sorcerer: how did you know? Did you 
guess it ? ” 

“ If you will look down this street from where I stand, 
you will perceive that I could distinctly see any carriage 
which turned out of the Piazza Barberini towards the 
Capuchins,” replied Ugo. “She was there nearly an 
hour, and you only stayed five minutes.” 

“How dreadful it is 'to be watched like this!” ex- 
claimed Donna Tullia, with a little laugh, half expressive 
of satisfaction and half of amusement at Del Ferice’s 
devotion. 

“ How can I help watching you, as the earth watches 
the sun in its daily course ? ” said Ugo, with a senti- 
mental intonation of his soft persuasive voice. Donna 
Tullia looked at his smooth face, and laughed again, half 
kindly. 

“ The Astrardente had been confessing her sins,” she 
remarked. 

“Again ? She is always confessing.” 

“ What do you suppose she finds to say ? ” asked 
Donna Tullia. 

“ That her husband is hideous, and that you are beau- 
tiful,” answered Del Ferice, readily enough. 

F 


82 


SARACINESCA. 




“ Why ? ” 

“ Because she hates her husband and hates you.” 

“ Why, again ? ” 

“ Because you took Giovanni Saracinesca to your picnic 
yesterday; because you are always taking him away from 
her. For the matter of that, I hate him as much as the 
Astrardente hates you,” added Del Ferice, with an agree- 
able smile. Donna Tullia did not despise flattery, but 
Ugo made her thoughtful. 

“ Do you think she really cares ? ” she asked. 

“As surely as that he does not,” replied Del Ferice. 

“It would be strange,” said Donna Tullia, meditatively. 
“ I would like to know if it is true.” 

“You have only to watch them.” 

“Surely Giovanni cares more than she does,” objected 
Madame Mayer. “ Everybody says he loves her; nobody 
says she loves him.” 

“ All the more reason. Popular report is always mis- 
taken — except in regard to you.” 

“ To me ? ” 

“ Since it ascribes to you so much that is good, it can- 
not be wrong,” replied Del Ferice. 

Donna Tullia laughed, and took his hand to descend 
from her carriage. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Monsieur Gouache’s studio was on the second floor. 
The narrow flight of steps ended abruptly against a green 
door, perforated by a slit for the insertion of letters, by a 
shabby green cord which, being pulled, rang a feeble bell, 
and adorned by a visiting-card, whereon with many super- 
fluous flourishes and ornaments of caligraphy was inscribed 
the name of the artist — Anastase Gouache. 

The door being opened by a string, Donna Tullia and 
Del Ferice entered, and mounting half-a-dozen more 


SARAC1NESCA. 


83 


steps, found themselves in the studio, a spacious room 
with a window high above the floor, half shaded by a 
curtain of grey cotton. In one corner an iron stove gave 
out loud cracking sounds, pleasant to hear on the damp 
winter’s morning, and the flame shone red through 
chinks of the rusty door. A dark-green carpet in pass- 
ably good condition covered the floor; three or four 
broad divans, spread with oriental rugs, and two very 
much dilapidated carved chairs with leathern seats, con- 
stituted the furniture ; the walls were hung with sketches 
of heads and figures ; half-finished portraits stood upon 
two easels, and others were leaning together in a corner ; 
a couple of small tables were covered with colour-tubes, 
brushes, and palette-knives ; mingled odours of paint, 
varnish, and cigarette-smoke pervaded the air; and, lastly, 
upon a high stool before one of the easels, his sleeves 
turned up to the elbow, and his feet tucked in upon a 
rail beneath him, sat Anastase Gouache himself. 

He was a man of not more than seven-and-twenty 
years, with delicate pale features, and an abundance of 
glossy black hair. A small and very much pointed 
moustache shaded his upper lip, and the extremities 
thereof rose short and perpendicular from the corners of 
his well-shaped mouth. His eyes were dark and singu- 
larly expressive, his forehead low and very broad; his 
hands were sufficiently nervous and well knit, but white 
as a woman’s, and the fingers tapered delicately to the 
tips. He wore a brown velvet coat more or less daubed 
with paint, and his collar was low at the throat. 

He sprang from his high stool as Donna Tullia and Del 
Ferice entered, his palette and mahl-stick in his hand, and 
made a most ceremonious bow; whereat Donna Tullia 
laughed gaily. 

“ Well, Gouache,” she said familiarly, “what have you 
been doing ? ” 

Anastase motioned to her to come before his canvas 
and contemplate the portrait of herself upon which he 
was working. It was undeniably'good — a striking figure 


84 


SAEACINESCA. 


in full-length, life-size, and breathing with Donna Tullia’ s 
vitality, if also with something of her coarseness. 

“ Ah, my friend,” remarked Del Ferice, “you will never 
be successful until you take my advice.” 

“ I think it is very like,” said Donna Tullia, thought- 
fully. 

“You are too modest,” answered Del Ferice. “There 
is the foundation of likeness, but it lacks yet the soul.” 

“ Oh, but that will come,” returned Madame Mayer. 
Then turning to the artist, she added in a more doubtful 
voice, “ Perhaps, as Del Ferice says, you might give it a 
little more expression — what shall I say ? — more poetry.” 

Anastase Gouache smiled a fine smile. He was a man 
of immense talent ; since he had won the Prix de Pome 
he had made great progress, and was already half famous 
with that young celebrity which young men easily mis- 
take for fame itself. A new comet visible only through 
a good glass causes a deal of talk and speculation in the 
world ; but unless it comes near enough to brush the 
earth with its tail, it is very soon forgotten. But 
Gouache seemed to understand this, and worked steadily 
on. When Madame Mayer expressed a wish for a little 
more poetry in her portrait, he smiled, well knowing 
that poetry was as far removed from her nature as dry 
champagne is different in quality from small beer. 

“Yes,” he said; “I know — I am only too conscious of 
that defect.” As indeed he was — conscious of the defect 
of it in herself. But he had many reasons for not wish- 
ing to quarrel with Donna Tullia, and he swallowed his 
artistic convictions in a rash resolve to make her look 
like an inspired prophetess rather than displease her. 

“ If you will sit down, I will work upon the head,” he 
said ; and moving one of the old carved chairs into posi- 
tion for her, he adjusted the light and began to work 
without any further words. Del Ferice installed himself 
upon a divan whence he could see Donna Tullia and her 
portrait, and the sitting began. It might have continued 
for some time in a profound silence as far as the two men 


SARACINESCA. 85 

were concerned, but silence was not bearable for long to 
Donna Tullia. 

“ What were you and Saracinesca talking about yester- 
day ? 77 she asked suddenly, looking towards Del Ferice. 

“ Politics / 7 he answered, and was silent. 

“ Well? 77 inquired Madame Mayer, rather anxiously. 

“I am sure you know his views as well as I ,” returned 
Del Ferice, rather gloomily. “He is stupid and preju- 
diced .’ 7 

“Eeally ? 77 ejaculated Gouache, with innocent surprise. 
“A little more towards me, Madame. Thank you — so . 77 
And he continued painting. 

“You are absurd, Del Ferice ! 77 exclaimed Donna Tullia, 
colouring a little. “You think every one prejudiced and 
stupid who does not agree with you . 77 

“ With me ? With you, with us, you should say. 
Giovanni is a specimen of the furious Conservative, who 
hates change and has a cold chill at the word ‘ republic . 7 
Do you call that intelligent ? 77 

“ Giovanni is intelligent for all that , 77 answered Mad- 
ame Mayer. “ I am not sure that he is not more intelli- 
gent than you — in some ways , 77 she added, after allowing 
her rebuke to take effect. 

Del Ferice smiled blandly. It was not his business to 
show that he was hurt. 

“In one thing he is stupid compared with me , 77 he 
replied. “He is very far from doing justice to your 
charms. It must be a singular lack of intelligence which 
prevents him from seeing that you are as beautiful as you 
are charming. Is it not so, Gouache ? 77 

“Does any one deny it ? 77 asked the Frenchman, with 
an air of devotion. 

Madame Mayer blushed with annnoyance ; both because 
she coveted Giovanni’s admiration more than that of other 
men, and knew that she had not won it, and because she 
hated to feel that Del Ferice was able to wound her so 
easily. To cover her discomfiture she returned to the 
subject of politics. 


86 


SARACINESCA. 


“ We talk a great deal of our convictions,” she said ; 
“but in the meanwhile we must acknowledge that we 
have accomplished nothing at all. What is the good of 
our meeting here two or three times a-week, meeting in 
society, whispering together, corresponding in cipher, and 
doing all manner of things, when everything goes on just 
the same as before ? ” 

“ Better give it up and join Don Giovanni and his 
party,” returned Del Ferice, with a sneer. “He says if a 
change comes he will make the best of it. Of course, we 
could not do better.” 

“With us it is so easy,” said Gouache, thoughtfully. 
“A handful of students, a few paving-stones, ‘Vive la 
R6publique ! ’ and we have a tumult in no time.” 

That was not the kind of revolution in which Del 
Ferice proposed to have a hand. He meditated playing 
a very small part in some great movement; and when the 
fighting should be over, he meant to exaggerate the part 
he had played, and claim a substantial reward. For a 
good title and twenty thousand francs a-year he would 
have become as stanch for the temporal power as any 
canon of St. Peter’s. When he had begun talking of 
revolutions to Madame Mayer and to half-a-dozen hare- 
brained youths, of whom Gouache the painter. was one, he 
had not really the slightest idea of accomplishing any- 
thing. He took advantage of the prevailing excitement 
in order to draw Donna Tullia into a closer confidence 
than he could otherwise have aspired to obtain. He 
wanted to marry her, and every new power he could ob- 
tain over her was a step towards his goal. Neither she 
nor her friends were of. the stuff required for revolution- 
ary work ; but Del Ferice had hopes that, by means of 
the knot of malcontents he was gradually drawing to- 
gether, he might ruin Giovanni Saracinesca, and get the 
hand of Donna Tullia in marriage. He himself was in- 
deed deeply implicated in the plots of the Italian party ; 
but he was only employed as a spy, and in reality knew 
no more of the real intentions of those he served than did 


SARACINESCA. 


87 


Donna Tullia herself. But the position was sufficiently 
lucrative ; so much so that he had been obliged to ac- 
count for his accession of fortune by saying that an 
uncle of his had died and left him money. 

“If you- expected Don Giovanni to join a mob of stu- 
dents in tearing up paving-stones and screaming ‘Vive la 
B6publique !’ Iam not surprised that you are disappointed 
in your expectations/’ said Donna Tullia, rather scornfully. 

“ That is only Gouache’s idea of a popular movement,” 
answered Del Ferice. 

“And yours,” returned Anastase, lowering his mahl- 
stick and brushes, and turning sharply upon the Italian 
— “yours would be to begin by stabbing Cardinal An- 
tonelli in the back.” 

“ You mistake me, my friend,” returned Del Ferice, 
blandly. “ If you volunteered to perform that service to 
Italy, I would certainly not dissuade you. But I would 
certainly not offer you my assistance.” 

“ Fie ! How can you talk like that of murder ! ” 
exclaimed Donna Tullia. “ Go on with your painting, 
Gouache, and do not be ridiculous.” 

“The question of tyrannicide is marvellously inter- 
esting,” answered Anastase in a meditative tone, as he 
resumed his work, and glanced critically from Madame 
Mayer to his canvas and back again. 

“It belongs to a class of actions at which Del Ferice 
rejoices, but in which he desires no part,” said Donna 
Tullia. 

“It seems to me wiser to contemplate accomplishing 
the good result without any unnecessary and treacherous 
bloodshed,” answered Del Ferice, sententiously. Again 
Gouache smiled in his delicate satirical fashion, and 
glanced at Madame Mayer, who burst into a laugh. 

“Moral reflections never sound so especially and ridicu- 
lously moral as in your mouth, Ugo,” she said. 

“Why ? ” he asked, in an injured tone. 

“ I am sure I do not know. Of course, we all would 
like to see Victor Emmanuel in the Quirinal, and Borne 


88 


SARACINESCA. 


the capital of a free Italy. Of course we would all like 
to see it accomplished without murder or bloodshed ; but 
somehow, when you put it into words, it sounds very 
absurd.” 

In her brutal fashion Madame Mayer had hit upon a 
great truth, and Del Ferice was very much annoyed. He 
knew himself to be a scoundrel; he knew Madame Mayer 
to be a woman of very commonplace intellect ; he won- 
dered why he was not able to deceive her more effectually. 
He was often able to direct her, he sometimes elicited from 
her some expression of admiration at his astuteness; but 
in spite of his best efforts, she saw through him and 
understood him better than he liked. 

“I am sorry,” he said, “that what is honourable should 
sound ridiculous when it comes from me. I like to think 
sometimes that you believe in me.” 

“Oh, I do,” protested Donna Tullia, with a sudden 
change of manner. “ I was only laughing. I think you 
are really in earnest. Only, you know, nowadays, it is 
not the fashion to utter moralities in a severe tone, with an 
air of conviction. A little dash of cynicism — you know, 
a sort of half sneer — is so much more chic; it gives a much 
higher idea of the morality, because it conveys the impres- 
sion that it is utterly beyond you. Ask Gouache — ” 

“ By all means,” said the artist, squeezing a little more 
red from the tube upon his palette, “ one should always 
sneer at what one cannot reach. The fox, you remember, 
called the grapes sour. He was probably right, for he is 
the most intelligent of animals.” 

“ I would like to hear what Giovanni had to say about 
those grapes,” remarked Donna Tullia. 

“ Oh, he sneered in the most fashionable way,” answered 
Del Ferice. “ He would have pleased you immensely. He 
said that he would be ruined by a change of government, 
and that he thought it his duty to fight against it. He 
talked a great deal about the level of the Tiber, and 
landed property, and the duties of gentlemen. And he 
ended by saying he would make the best of any change 


SARACINESCA. 89 

that happened to come about, like a thoroughgoing ego- 
tist, as he is ! ” 

“ I would like to hear what you think of Don Giovanni 
Saracinesca,” said Gouache ; “ and then I would like to 
hear what he thinks of you.” 

“ I can tell you both,” answered Del Ferice. “ I think 
of him that he is a thorough aristocrat, full of prejudices 
and money, unwilling to sacrifice his convictions to his 
wealth or his wealth to his convictions, intelligent in re- 
gard to his own interests and blind to those of others, 
imbued with a thousand and one curious feudal notions, 
and overcome with a sense of his own importance.” 

“ And what does he think of you ? ” asked Anastase, 
working busily. 

“Oh, it is very simple,” returned Del Ferice, with a 
laugh. “ He thinks I am a great scoundrel.” 

“ Really ! How strange ! I should not have said that.” 

“ What ? That Del Ferice is a scoundrel ? ” asked 
Donna Tullia, laughing. 

“No; I should not have said it,” repeated Anastase, 
thoughtfully. “ I should say that our friend Del Ferice 
is a man of the most profound philanthropic convictions, 
nobly devoting his life to the pursuit of liberty, fraternity, 
and equality.” 

“ Do you really think so ? ” asked Donna Tullia, with 
a half-comic glance at Ugo, who looked uncommonly 
grave. 

“ Madame,” returned Gouache, “ I never permit myself 
to think otherwise of any of my friends.” 

“Upon my word,” remarked Del Ferice, “I am de- 
lighted at the compliment, my dear fellow ; but I must 
infer that your judgment of your friends is singularly 
limited.” 

“Perhaps,” answered Gouache. “But the number of 
my friends is not large, and I myself am very enthusi- 
astic. I look forward to the day when ‘liberty, equality, 
and fraternity ’ shall be inscribed in letters of flame, in 
the most expensive Bengal lights if you please, over the 


90 


SAKACINESCA. 


porte coch&re of every palace in Rome, not to mention the 
churches. I look forward to that day, but I have not the 
slightest expectation of ever seeing it. Moreover, if it 
ever comes, I will pack up my palette and brushes and 
go somewhere else by the nearest route.” 

“ Good heavens, Gouache ! ” exclaimed Donna Tullia ; 
“ how can you talk like that ? It is really dreadfully 
irreverent to jest about our most sacred convictions, or to 
say that we desire to see those words written over the 
doors of our churches ! ” 

“I am not jesting. I worship Victor Hugo. I love to 
dream of the universal republic — it has immense artistic 
attractions — the fierce yelling crowd, the savage faces, the 
red caps, the terrible maenad women urging the brawny 
ruffians on to shed more blood, the lurid light of burning 
churches, the pale and trembling victims dragged beneath 
the poised knife, — ah, it is superb, it has stupendous 
artistic capabilities ! But for myself — bah ! I am a good 
Catholic — I wish nobody any harm, for life is very gay 
after all.” 

At this remarkable exposition of Anastase Gouache’s 
views in regard to the utility of revolutions, Del Ferice 
laughed loudly ; but Anastase remained perfectly grave, 
for he was perfectly sincere. Del Ferice, to whom the 
daily whispered talk of revolution in Donna Tullia’s 
circle was mere child’s play, was utterly indifferent, and 
suffered himself to be amused by the young artist’s vaga- 
ries. But Donna Tullia, who longed to see herself the 
centre of a real plot, thought that she was being laughed 
at, and pouted her red lips and frowned her displeasure. 

“ I believe you have no convictions ! ” she said angrily. 
“ While we are risking our lives and fortunes for the 
good cause, you sit here in your studio dreaming of bar- 
ricades and guillotines, merely as subjects for pictures 
— you even acknowledge that in case we produce a revo- 
lution you would go away.” 

“ Not without finishing this portrait,” returned Ana- 
stase, quite unmoved. “ It is an exceedingly good like- 


SARACINESCA. 


91 


ness; and in case you should ever disappear — you know 
people sometimes do in revolutions — or if by any unlucky 
accident your beautiful neck should chance beneath that 
guillotine you just mentioned, — why, then, this canvas 
would be the most delightful souvenir of many pleasant 
mornings, would it not?” 

“ You are incorrigible,” said Donna Tullia, with a slight 
laugh. “ You cannot be serious for a moment.” 

“It is very hard to paint you when your expression 
changes so often,” replied Anastase, calmly. 

“ I am' not in a good humour for sitting to you this 
morning. I wish you would amuse me, Del Fence. You 
generally can.” 

“ I thought politics amused you ” 

“ They interest me. But Gouache’s ideas are detestable.” 

“ Will you not give us some of your own, Madame ? ” 
inquired the painter, stepping back from his canvas to get 
a better view of his work. 

“ Oh, mine are very simple,” answered Donna Tullia. 
“ Victor Emmanuel, Garibaldi, and a free press.” 

“A combination of monarchy, republicanism, and popu- 
lar education — not very interesting,” remarked Gouache, 
still eyeing his picture. 

“ No; there would be nothing for you to paint, except 
portraits of the liberators ” 

“There is a great deal of that done. I have seen 
them in every cafe in the north of Italy,” interrupted 
the artist. “ I would like to paint Garibaldi. He has a 
fine head.” 

“ I will ask him to sit to you when he comes here.” 

“ When he comes I shall be here no longer,” answered 
Gouache. “They will whitewash the Corso, they will 
make a restaurant of the Colosseum, and they will hoist 
the Italian flag on the cross of St. Peter’s. Then I will 
go to Constantinople ; there will still be some years be- 
fore Turkey is modernised.” 

“Artists are hopeless people,” said Del Ferice. “They 
are utterly illogical, and it is impossible to deal with them. 


92 


SARACINESCA. 


If you like old cities, why do you not like old women ? 
Why would you not rather paint Donna Tullia’s old 
Countess than Donna Tullia herself ? ” 

“ That is precisely the opposite case,” replied Anastase, 
quietly. “ The works of man are never so beautiful as 
when they are falling to decay ; the works of God are most 
beautiful when they are young. You might as well say 
that because wine improves with age, therefore horses do 
likewise. The faculty of comparison is lacking in your 
mind, my dear Del Ferice, as it is generally lacking in the 
minds of true patriots. Great reforms and great revolu- 
tions are generally brought about by people of fierce and 
desperate convictions, like yours, who go to extreme 
lengths, and never know when to stop. The quintessence 
of an artist’s talent is precisely that faculty of comparison, 
that gift of knowing when the thing he is doing corre- 
sponds as nearly as he can make it with the thing he has 
imagined.” 

There was no tinge of sarcasm in Gouache’s voice as he 
imputed to Del Ferice the savage enthusiasm of a revolu- 
tionist. But when Gouache, who was by no means calm 
by nature, said anything in a particularly gentle tone, there 
was generally a sting in it, and Del Ferice reflected upon 
the mean traffic in stolen information by which he got his 
livelihood, and was ashamed. Somehow, too, Donna Tullia 
felt that the part she fancied herself playing was contempt- 
ible enough when compared with the hard work, the earn- 
est purpose, and the remarkable talent of the young artist. 
But though she felt her inferiority, she would have died 
rather than own it, even to Del Ferice. She knew that 
for months she had talked with Del Ferice, with Valdarno, 
with Casalverde, even with the melancholy and ironical 
Spicca, concerning conspiracies and deeds of darkness of 
all kinds, and she knew that she and they might go on 
talking for ever in the same strain without producing the 
smallest effect on events ; but she never to the very end 
relinquished the illusion she cherished so dearly, that she 
was really and truly a conspirator, and that if any one of 


SARACINESCA. 


93 


her light-headed acquaintance betrayed the rest, they 
might all be ordered out of Rome in four-and-twenty 
hours, or might even disappear into that long range of 
dark buildings to the left of the colonnade of St. Peter’s, 
martyrs to the cause of their own self-importance and 
semi-theatrical vanity. There were many knots of such 
self-fancied conspirators in those days, whose wildest deed 
of daring was to whisper across a glass of champagne in 
a ball-room, or over a tumbler of Velletri wine in a Tras- 
teverine cellar, the magic and awe-inspiring words, “Viva 
Garibaldi ! Viva Vittorio ! ” They accomplished nothing. 
The same men and women are now grumbling and regret- 
ting the flesh-pots of the old Government, or whispering 
in impotent discontent “ Viva la Repubblica ! ” and they 
and their descendants will go on whispering something 
to each other to the end of time, while mightier hands 
than theirs are tearing down empires and building up 
irresistible coalitions, and drawing red pencil-marks 
through the geography of Europe. 

The conspirators of those days accomplished nothing 
after Pius IX. returned from Gaeta ; the only men who 
were of any use at .all were those who, like Del Ferice, 
had sources of secret information, and basely sold their 
scraps of news. But even they were of small impor- 
tance. The moment had not come, and all the talking 
and whispering and tale-bearing in the world could not 
hasten events, nor change their course. But Donna 
Tullia was puffed up with a sense of her importance, and 
Del Ferice managed to attract just as much attention to 
his harmless chatter about progress as would permit him 
undisturbed to carry on his lucrative traffic in secret 
information. 

Donna Tullia, who was not in the least artistic, and 
who by no means appreciated the merits of the portrait 
Gouache was painting, was very far from comprehending 
his definition of artistic comparison ; but Del Ferice un- 
derstood it very well. Donna Tullia had much foreign 
blood in her veins, like most of her class j but Del 


94 


SARACINESCA. 


Fence’s obscure descent was in all probability purely 
Italian, and be had inherited the common instinct in 
matters of art which is a part of the Italian birthright. 
He had recognised Gouache’s wonderful talent, and had 
first brought Donna Tullia to his studio — a matter of 
little difficulty when she had learned that the young 
artist had already a reputation. It pleased her to fancy 
that by telling him to paint her portrait she might pose 
as his patroness, and hereafter reap the reputation of 
having influenced his career. For fashion, and the de- 
sire to be the representative of fashion, led Donna Tullia 
hither and thither as a lapdog is led by a string ; and 
there is nothing more in the fashion than to patronise a 
fashionable portrait-painter. 

But after Anastase Gouache had thus delivered him- 
self of his views upon Del Ferice and the faculty of 
Eiijtistic comparison, the conversation languished, and 
Donna Tullia grew restless. “ She had sat enough,” she 
said; and as her expression was not favourable to the 
portrait, Anastase did not contradict her, but presently 
suffered her to depart in peace with her devoted adorer 
at her heels. And when they were gone, Anastase lighted 
a cigarette, and took a piece of charcoal and sketched a 
caricature of Donna Tullia in a liberty cap, in a fine 
theatrical attitude, invoking the aid of Del ferice, who 
appeared as the Angel of Death, with the guillotine in the 
background. Having put the finishing touches to this 
work of art, Anastase locked his studio and went to 
breakfast, humming an air from the “ Belle Helene.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

When Corona reached home she went to her own small 
boudoir, with the intention of remaining there for an hour 
if she could do so without being disturbed. There was a 
prospect of this ; for on inquiry she ascertained that her 


SARACINESCA. 


95 


husband was not yet dressed, and his dressing took a very 
long time. He had a cosmopolitan valet, who alone of 
living men understood the art of fitting the artificial and 
the natural Astrardente together. Corona believed this 
man to be an accomplished scoundrel ; but she never had 
any proof that he was anything worse than a very clever 
servant, thoroughly unscrupulous where his master’s in- 
terests or his own were concerned. The old Duca believed 
in him sincerely and trusted him alone, feeling that since 
he could never be a hero in his valet’s eyes, he might as 
well take advantage of that misfortune in order to gain a 
confident. 

Corona found three or four letters upon her table, and 
sat down to read them, letting her fur mantle drop to the 
floor, and putting her small feet out towards the fire, for 
the pavement of the church had been cold. 

She was destined to pass an eventful day, it seemed. 
One of the letters was from Giovanni Saracinesca. It 
was the first time he had ever written to her, and she was 
greatly surprised on finding his name at the foot of the 
page. He wrote a strong clear handwriting, entirely 
without adornment of penmanship, close and regular and 
straight : there was an air of determination about it which 
was sympathetic, and a conciseness of expression which 
startled Corona, as though she had heard the man him- 
self speaking to her. 

“ I write, dear Duchessa, because I covet your good 
opinion, and my motive is therefore before all things an 
interested one. I would not have you think that I had 
idly asked your advice about a thing so important to me 
as my marriage, in order to discard your counsel at the 
first opportunity. There was too much reason in the view 
you took of the matter to admit of my not giving your 
opinion all the weight I could, even if I had not already 
determined upon the very course you advised. Circum- 
stances have occurred, however, which have almost 
induced me to change my mind. I have had an inter- 


96 


SARACINESCA. 


view with my father, who has put the matter very plainly 
before me. I hardly know how to tell you this, but I feel 
that I owe it to you to explain myself, however much 
you may despise me for what I am going to say. It is 
very simple, nevertheless. My father has informed me 
that by my conduct I have caused my name to be coupled 
in the mouth of the gossips with that of a person very 
dear to me, but whom I am unfortunately prevented from 
marrying. He has convinced me that I owe to this lady, 
who, I confess, takes no interest whatever in me, the 
only reparation possible to be made — that of taking a 
wife, and thus publicly demonstrating that there was 
never any truth in what has been said. As a marriage 
will probably be forced upon me some day, it is as well to 
let things take their course at once, in order that a step 
so disagreeable to myself may at least distantly profit 
one whom I love in removing me from the appearance of 
being a factor in her life. The gossip about me has never 
reached your ears, but if it should, you will be the better 
able to understand my position. 

“ Do not think, therefore, that if I do not follow your 
advice I am altogether inconsistent, or that I wantonly 
presumed to consult you without any intention of being 
guided by you. Forgive me also this letter, which I am 
impelled to write from somewhat mean motives of vanity, 
in the hope of not altogether forfeiting your opinion ; 
and especially I beg you to believe that I am at all times 
the most obedient of your servants, 

“ Giovanni Saracinesca.” 

Of what use was it that she had that morning deter- 
mined to forget Giovanni, since he had the power of thus 
bringing himself before her by means of a scrap of paper ? 
Corona’s hand closed upon the letter convulsively, and 
for a moment the room seemed to swim around her. 

So there was some one whom he loved, some one for 
whose fair name he was willing to sacrifice himself even 
to the extent of marrying against his will. Some one, 


SARACINESCA. 


97 


too, who not only did not love him, but took no interest 
whatever in him. Those were his own words, and they 
must be true, for he never lied. That accounted for his 
accompanying Donna Tullia to the picnic. He was going 
to marry her after all. To save the woman he loved so 
hopelessly from the mere suspicion of being loved by him, 
he was going to tie himself for life to the first who would 
marry him. That would never prevent the gossips from 
saying that he loved this other woman as much as ever. 
It could do her no great harm, since she took no interest 
whatever in him. Who could she be, this cold creature, 
whom even Giovanni could not move to interest? It was 
absurd— the letter was absurd — the whole thing was 
absurd ! None but a madman would think of pursuing 
such a course ; and why should he think it necessary to 
confide his plans- — his very foolish plans — to her, Corona 
d’Astrardente, — why ? Ah, Giovanni, how different 
things might have been ! 

Corona rose angrily from her seat and leaned against 
the. broad chimney-piece, and looked at the clock — it was 
nearty mid-day. He might marry whom he pleased, and 
be welcome — what was it to her ? He might marry and 
sacrifice himself if he pleased — what was it to her ? 

She thought of her own life. She, too, had sacrificed 
herself ; she, too, had tied herself for life to a man she 
despised in her heart, and she had done it for an object 
she had thought good. She looked steadily at the clock, 
for she would not give way, nor bend her head and cry 
bitter tears again ; but the tears were in her eyes, never- 
theless. 

“Giovanni, you must not do it — you must not do it!” 
Her lips formed the words without speaking them, and 
repeated the thought again and again. Her heart beat 
fast and her cheeks flushed darkly. She spread out the 
crumpled letter and read it once more. As she read, the 
most intense curiosity seized her to know who this 
woman might be whom Giovanni so loved ; and with her 
curiosity there was a new feeling — an utterly hateful and 

a 


98 


SABACINESCA. 


hating passion — something so strong, that it suddenly 
dried her tears and sent the blood from her cheeks back 
to her heart. Her white hand was clenched, and her 
eyes were on fire. Ah, if she could only find that woman 
he loved ! if she could only see her dead — dead with 
Giovanni Saracinesca there upon the floor before her ! 
As she thought of it, she stamped her foot upon the thick 
carpet, and her face grew paler. She did not know what 
it was that she felt, but it completely overmastered her. 
Padre Filippo would be pleased, she thought, for she 
knew how in that moment she hated Giovanni Sara- 
cinesca. 

With a sudden impulse she again sat down and opened 
the letter next to her hand. It was a gossiping epistle 
from a friend in Paris, full of stories of the day, excla- 
mations upon fashion ahd all kinds of emptiness ; she 
was about to throw it down impatiently and take up the 
next when her eyes caught Giovanni’s name. 

“ Of course it is not true that Saracinesca is to marry 
Madame Mayer, ...” were the words she read. But 
that was all. There chanced to have been just room for 
the sentence at the foot of the page, and by the time her 
friend had turned over the leaf, she had already for- 
gotten what she had written, and was running on with a 
different idea. It seemed as though Corona we*e haunted 
by Giovanni at every turn ; but she had not reached the 
end yet, for one letter still remained. She tore open the 
envelope, and found that the contents consisted of a few 
lines penned in a small and irregular hand, without sig- 
nature. There was an air of disguise about the whole, 
which was unpleasant; it was written upon a common 
sort of paper, and had come through the city post. It 
ran as follows : — 

“ The Duchessa d’Astrardente reminds us of the fable 
of the dog in the horse’s manger, for she can neither eat 
herself nor let others eat. She will not accept Don 
Giovanni Saracinesca’s devotion, but she effectually pre- 
vents him from fulfilling his engagements to others.” 


SARACINESCA. 


99 


If Corona had been in her ordinary mood, she would 
very likely have laughed at the anonymous communica- 
tion. She had formerly received more than one passion- 
ate declaration, not signed indeed, but accompanied 
always by some clue to the identity of the writer, and 
she had carelessly thrown them into the fire. But there 
was no such indication here whereby she might discover 
who it was who had undertaken to criticise her, to cast 
upon her so unjust an accusation. Moreover, she was 
very angry and altogether thrown out of her usually calm 
humour. Her first impulse was to go to her husband, 
and in the strength of her innocence to show him the 
letter. Then she laughed bitterly as she thought how 
the selfish old dandy would scoff at her sensitiveness, and 
how utterly incapable he would be of discovering the 
offender or of punishing the offence. Then again her 
face was grave, and she asked herself whether it was 
true that she was innocent; whether she were not really 
to be blamed, if perhaps she had really prevented Gio- 
vanni from marrying Donna Tullia. 

But if that were true, she must herself be the woman 
he spoke of in his letter. Any other woman would have 
suspected as much. Corona went to the window, and 
for an instant there was a strange light of pleasure in 
her face. Then she grew very thoughtful, and her whole 
mood changed. She could not conceive it possible that 
Giovanni so loved her as to marry for her sake. Besides, 
no one could ever have breathed a word of him in con- 
nection with herself — until this abominable anonymous 
letter was written. 

The thought that she might, after all, be the “ person 
very dear to him , 57 the one who “ took no interest what- 
ever in him , 55 had nevertheless crossed her mind, and 
had given her for one moment a sense of wild and in- 
describable pleasure. Then she remembered what she 
had felt before : how angry, how utterly beside herself, 
she had been at the thought of another woman being 
loved by him, and she suddenly understood that she was 


100 


SAEACINESCA. 


jealous of her. The very thought revived in her the 
belief that it was not she herself who was thus influenc- 
ing the life of Giovanni Saracinesca, but another, and she 
sat silent and pale. 

Of course it was another ! What had she done, what 
word had she spoken, whereby the world might pretend 
to believe that she controlled this man’s actions ? “ Ful- 
filling his engagements,” the letter said, too. It must 
have been written by an ignorant person — by some one 
who had no idea of what was passing, and who wrote at 
random, hoping to touch a sensitive chord, to do some 
harm, to inflict some pain, in petty vengeance for a 
fancied slight. But in her heart, though she crushed 
down the instinct, she would have believed the anony- 
mous jest well founded, for the sake of believing, too, 
that Giovanni Saracinesca was ready to lay his life at 
her feet — although in that belief she would have felt 
that she was committing a mortal sin. 

She went back to her interview that morning with 
Padre Filippo, and thought over all she had said and all 
he had answered ; how she had been willing to admit 
the possibility of Giovanni’s love, and how sternly the 
confessor had ruled down the clause, and told her there 
should never arise such a doubt in her mind; how she 
had scorned herself for being capable of seeking love 
where there was none, and how she had sworn that there 
should be no perhaps in the matter. It seemed very 
hard to do right, but she would try to see where the 
right lay. In the first place, she should burn the anony- 
mous letter, and never condescend to think of it ; and 
she should also burn Giovanni’s, because it would be an 
injustice to him to keep it. She looked once more at 
the unsigned, ill-written page, and, with a little scornful 
laugh, threw it from where she sat into the fire with its 
envelope; then she took Giovanni’s note, and would 
have done the same, but her hand trembled, and the 
crumpled bit of paper fell upon the hearth. She rose 
from her chair quickly, and took it up again, kneeling 


SARACINESCA. 


101 


before the fire, like some beautiful dark priestess of old 
feeding the flames of a sacred altar. She smoothed the 
paper out once more, and once more read the even 
characters, and looked long at the signature, and back 
again to the writing. 

“ This lady, who, I confess, takes no interest whatever 
in me. . . .” 

“ How could he say it!” she exclaimed aloud. “Oh, 
if I knew who she was ! ” With an impatient movement 
she thrust the letter among the coals, and watched the 
fire curl it and burn it, from white to brown and from 
brown to black, till it was all gone. Then she rose to 
her feet and left the room. 

Her husband certainly did not guess that the Duchessa 
d’Astrardente had spent so eventful a morning ; and if 
any one had told him that his wife had been through a 
dozen stages of emotion, he would have laughed, and 
w'ould have told his informant that Corona was not of 
the sort who experience violent passions. That evening 
they went to the opera together, and the old man was in 
an unusually cheerful humour. A new coat had just 
arrived from Paris, and the padding had attained a higher 
degree of scientific perfection than heretofore. Corona 
also looked more beautiful than even her husband ever 
remembered to have seen her ; she wore a perfectly simple 
gown of black satin without the smallest relief of colour, 
and upon her neck the famous Astrardente necklace of 
pearls, three strings of even thickness, each jewel exquis- 
itely white and just lighted in its shadow by a delicate 
pink tinge — such a necklace as an empress might have 
worn. In the raven masses of her hair there was not the 
least ornament, nor did any flower enhance the rich 
blackness of its silken coils. It would be impossible to 
imagine greater simplicity than Corona showed in her 
dress, but it would be hard to conceive of any woman 
who possessed by virtue of severe beauty a more indubit- 
able right to dispense with ornament. 

The theatre was crowded. There was a performance 


102 


SARACINESCA. 


of “Norma,” for which several celebrated artists had 
been, engaged — an occurrence so rare in Rome, that the 
theatre was absolutely full. The Astrardente box was 
upon the second tier, just where the amphitheatre began 
to curve. There was room in it for four or five persons 
to see the stage. 

The Duchessa and her husband arrived in the middle 
of the first act, and remained alone until it was over. 
Corona was extremely fond of “Norma,” and after she 
was seated never took her eyes from the stage. Astrar- 
dente, on the other hand, maintained his character as a 
man of no illusions, and swept the house with his small 
opera-glass. The instrument itself was like him, and 
would have been appropriate for a fine lady of the First 
Empire ; it was of mother-of-pearl, made very small and 
light, the metal-work upon it heavily gilt and ornamented 
with turquoises. The old man glanced from time to time 
at the stage, and then again settled himself to the study 
of the audience, which interested him far more than the 
opera. 

“ Every human being you ever heard of is here,” he 
remarked at the end of the first act. “ Really I should 
think you would find it worth while to look at your 
magnificent fellow-creatures, my dear.” 

Corona looked slowly round the house. She had ex- 
cellent eyes, and never used a glass. She saw the same 
faces she had seen for five years, the same occasional 
flash of beauty, the same average number of over-dressed 
women, the same paint, the same feathers, the same jewels. 
She saw opposite to her Madame Mayer, with the elderly 
countess whom she patronised for the sake of deafness, 
and found convenient as a sort of flying chaperon. The 
countess could not hear much of the music, but she was 
fond of the world and liked to be seen, and she could 
not hear at all what Del Ferice said in an undertone to 
Madame Mayer. Sufficient do her were the good things 
of the day ; the rest was in no way her business. There 
was Yaldarno in the club-box, with a knot of other men 


SARACINESCA. 


103 


of his own stamp. There were the Bocca, mother and 
daughter and son — a boy of eighteen — and a couple of 
men in the back of the box. Everybody was there, as her 
husband had said ; and as she dropped her glance toward 
the stalls, she was aware of Giovanni Saracinesca’s black 
eyes looking anxiously up to her. A faint smile crossed 
her serene face, and almost involuntarily she nodded to 
him and then looked away. Many men were watching 
her, and bowed as she glanced at them, and she bent her 
head to each ; but there was no smile for any save Gio- 
vanni, and when she looked again to where he had been 
standing with his back to the stage, he was gone from 
his place. 

“They are the same old things,” said Astrardente, “but 
they are still very amusing. Madame Mayer always 
seems to get the wrong man into her box. She would 
give all those diamonds to have Giovanni Saracinesca 
instead of that newsmonger fellow. If he comes here 
I will send him across.” 

“ Perhaps she likes Del Ferice,” suggested Corona. 

“He is a good lapdog — a very good dog,” answered her 
husband. “ He cannot bite at all, and his bark is so soft 
that you would take it for the mewing of a kitten. He 
fetches and carries admirably.” 

“ Those are good points, but not interesting ones. He 
is very tiresome with his eternal puns and insipid com- 
pliments, and his gossip.” 

“But he is so very harmless,” answered Astrardente, 
with compassionate scorn. “ He is incapable of doing an 
injury. Donna Tullia is wise in adopting him as her 
slave. She would not be so safe with Saracinesca, for 
instance. If you feel the need of an admirer, my dear, 
take Del Ferice. I have no objection to him.” 

“Why should I need admirers ? ” asked Corona, quietly. 

“ I was merely jesting, my love. Is not your own hus- 
band the greatest of your admirers, and your devoted 
slave into the bargain?” Old Astrardente’s face twisted 
itself into the semblance of a smile, as he leaned towards 


104 


SARACINESCA. 


his young wife, lowering his cracked voice to a thin whis- 
per. He was genuinely in love with her, and lost no oppor- 
tunity of telling her so. She smiled a little wearily. 

“You are very good to me,” she said. She had often 
wondered how it was that this aged creature, w r ho had 
never been faithful to any attachment in his life for five 
months, did really seem to love her just as he had done 
for five years. It was perhaps the greatest triumph she 
could have attained, though she never thought of it in 
that light ; but though she could not respect her husband 
very much, she could not think unkindly of him — for, as 
she said, he was very good to her. She often reproached 
herself because he wearied her; she believed that she 
should have taken more pleasure in his admiration. 

“ I cannot help being good to you, my angel / 5 he said. 
“ How could I be otherwise ? Do I not love you most 
passionately ? 55 

“ Indeed, I think so / 5 Corona answered. As she spoke 
there was a knock at the door. Her heart leaped wildly, 
and she turned a little pale. 

“ The devil seize these visitors ! 55 muttered old Astrar- 
dente, annoyed beyond measure at being interrupted 
when making love to his wife. “ I suppose we must let 
them in ? 55 

“I suppose so / 5 assented the Duchessa, with forced 
calm. Her husband opened the door, and Giovanni Sara- 
cinesca entered, hat in hand. 

“ Sit down / 5 said Astrardente, rather harshly. 

“I trust I am not disturbing you / 5 replied Giovanni, 
still standing. He was somewhat surprised at the old 
man’s inhospitable tone. 

“ Oh no ; not in the least / 5 said the latter, quickly re- 
gaining his composure. “Pray sit down; the act will 
begin in a moment . 55 

Giovanni established himself upon the chair immedi- 
ately behind the Duchessa. He had come to talk, and he 
anticipated that during the second act he would have an 
excellent opportunity. 


SARACINESCA. 105 

“ I hear you enjoyed yourselves yesterday,’’ said Corona, 
turning her head so as to speak more easily. 

“ Indeed ! ” Giovanni answered, and a shade of annoy- 
ance crossed his face. “ And who was your informant, 
Duchessa ? ” 

“ Donna Tullia. I met her this morning. She said you 
amused them all — kept them laughing the whole day.” 

“ What an extraordinary statement ! ” exclaimed Gio- 
vanni. “It shows how one may unconsciously furnish 
matter for mirth. I do not recollect having talked much 
to any one. It was a noisy party enough, however.” 

“Perhaps Donna Tullia spoke ironically,” suggested 
Corona. “ Do you like 1 Norma ’ ? ” 

“ Oh yes ; one opera is as good as another. There goes 
the curtain.” 

The act began, and for some minutes no one in the box 
spoke. Presently there was a burst of orchestral music. 
Giovanni leaned forward so that his face was close be- 
hind Corona. He could speak without being heard by 
Astrardente. 

“ Did you receive my letter ? ” he asked. Corona made 
an almost imperceptible inclination of her head, but did 
not speak* 

“ Do you understand my position ? ” he asked again. 
He could not see her face, and for some seconds she made 
no sign ; at last she moved her head again, but this time 
to express a negative. 

“ It is simple enough, it seems to me,” said Giovanni, 
bending his brows. 

Corona found that by turning a little she could still 
look at the stage, and at the same time speak to the man 
behind her. 

“How can I judge? ” she said. “You have not told 
me all. Why do you ask me to judge whether you are 
right ? ” 

“ I could not do it if you thought me wrong,” he an- 
swered shortly. 

The Duchessa suddenly thought of that other woman 


106 


SARACINESCA. 


for whom the man who asked her advice was willing to 
sacrifice his life. 

“ You attach an astonishing degree of importance to my 
opinion,” she said very coldly, and turned her head from 
him. 

“ There is no one so well able to give an opinion,” said 
Giovanni, insisting. 

Corona was offended. She interpreted the speech to 
mean that since she had sacrificed her life to the old man 
on the opposite side of the box, she was able to judge 
whether Giovanni would do wisely in making a marriage 
of convenience, for the sake of an end which even to her 
mind seemed visionary. She turned quickly upon him, 
and there was an angry gleam in her eyes. 

“Pray do not introduce the subject of my life,” she said 
haughtily. 

Giovanni was too much astonished to answer her at 
once. He had indeed not intended the least reference to 
her marriage. 

“You have entirely misunderstood me,” he said pres- 
ently. 

“ Then you must express yourself more clearly,” she 
replied. She would have felt very guilty to be thus talk- 
ing to Giovanni, as she would not have talked^ before her 
husband, had she not felt that it was upon Giovanni’s 
business, and that the matter discussed in no way con- 
cerned herself. As for Saracinesca, he was in a dangerous 
position, and was rapidly losing his self-control. He was 
too near to her, his heart was beating too fast, the blood 
was throbbing in his temples, and he was stung by being 
misunderstood. 

“It is not possible for me to express myself more 
clearly,” he answered. “ I am suffering for having told 
you too little when I dare not tell you all. I make no 
reference to your marriage when I speak to you of my 
own. Forgive me ; I will not refer to the matter again.” 

Corona felt again that strange thrill, half of pain, half 
of pleasure, and the lights of the theatre seemed moving 


SARACINESCA. 


107 


before her uncertainly, as things look when one falls from 
a height. Almost unconsciously she spoke, hardly know- 
ing that she turned her head, and that her dark eyes 
rested upon Giovanni’s pale face. 

“ And yet there must be some reason why you tell me 
that little, and why you do not tell me more.” When she 
had spoken, she would have given all the world to have 
taken back her words. It was too late. Giovanni answered 
in a low thick voice that sounded as though he were chok- 
ing, his face grew white, and his teeth seemed almost to 
chatter as though he were cold, but his eyes shone like 
black stars in the shadow of the box. 

“There is every reason. You are the woman I love.” 

Corona did not move for several seconds, as though not 
comprehending what he had said. Then she suddenly 
shivered, and her eyelids drooped as she leaned back in 
her chair. Her fingers relaxed their tight hold upon her 
fan, and the thing fell rattling upon the floor of the box. 

Old Astrardente, who had taken no notice of the pair, 
being annoyed at Giovanni’s visit, and much interested in 
the proceedings of Madame Mayer in the box opposite, 
heard the noise, and stooped with considerable alacrity 
to pick up the fan which lay at his feet. 

u You are not well, my love,” he said quickly, as he 
observed his wife’s unusual pallor. 

“ It is nothing ; it will pass,” she murmured, with a 
terrible effort. Then, as though she had not said enough, 
she added, “ There must be a draught here ; I have a chill.” 

Giovanni had sat like a statue, utterly overcome by 
the sense of his own folly and rashness, as well as by 
the shock of having so miserably failed to keep the 
secret he dreaded to reveal. On hearing Corona’s voice, 
he rose suddenly, as from a dream. 

“ Forgive me,” he said hurriedly, “ I have just remem- 
bered a most important engagement ” 

“Do not mention it,” said Astrardente, sourly. Gio- 
vanni bowed to the Duchessa and left the box. She did 
not look at him as he went away. 


108 


SARACINESCA. 


“We liad better go home, my angel,” said the old man. 
“You have got a bad chill.” 

“ Oh no, I would rather stay. It is nothing, and the 
best part of the opera is to come.” Corona spoke quietly 
enough. Her strong nerves had already recovered from 
the shock she had experienced, and she could command 
her voice. She did not want to go home ; on the contrary, 
the brilliant lights and the music served for a time to 
soothe her. If there had been a ball that night she 
would have gone to it 5 she would have done anything 
that would take her thoughts from herself. Her husband 
looked at her curiously. The suspicion crossed his mind 
that Don Giovanni had said something which had either 
frightened or offended her, but on second thoughts the 
theory seemed absurd. He regarded Saracinesca as little 
more than a mere acquaintance of his wife’s. 

“As you please, my love,” he answered, drawing his 
chair a little nearer to hers. “ I am glad that fellow is 
gone. We can talk at our ease now.” 

“Yes; I am glad he is gone. We can talk now,” re- 
peated Corona, mechanically. 

“ I thought his excuse slightly conventional, to say the 
least of it,” remarked Astrardente. “An important 
engagement! — just a little banal. However, any excuse 
was good enough which took him away.” 

“Did he say that?” asked Corona. “I did not hear. 
Of course, any excuse would do, as you say.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

Giovanni left the theatre at once, alone, and on foot. 
He was very much agitated. He had done suddenly and 
unawares the thing of all others he had determined 
never to do ; his resolutions had been broken down and 
carried away as an ineffectual barrier is swept to the sea 


SARACINESCA. 


109 


by the floods of spring. His heart had spoken in spite 
of him, and in speaking' had silenced every prompting of 
reason. He blamed himself bitterly, as he strode out 
across the deserted bridge of Sant’ Angelo and into the 
broad gloom beyond, where the street widens from the 
fortress to the entrance of the three Borghi : he walked 
on and on, finding at every step fresh reason for self- 
reproach, and trying to understand what he had done. 
He paused at the end of the open piazza and looked down 
towards the black rushing river which he could hear, 
but hardly see; he turned into the silent Borgo Santo 
Spirito, and passed along the endless wall of the great 
hospital up to the colonnades, and still wandering on, he 
came to the broad steps of St. Peter’s and sat down, alone 
in the darkness, at the foot of the stupendous pile. 

He was, perhaps not so much to blame as he was will- 
ing to allow in his just anger against himself. Corona 
had tempted him sorely in that last question she had put 
to him. She had not known, she had not even faintly 
guessed what she was doing, for her own brain was intox- 
icated with a new and indescribable sensation which had 
left no room for reflection nor for weighing the force of 
words. But Giovanni, who had been willing to give up 
everything, even to his personal liberty, for the sake of 
concealing his love, would not allow himself any argu- 
ment in extenuation of what he had done. He had had 
but very few affairs of the heart in. his life, and they had 
been for the most part very insignificant, and his experi- 
ence was limited. Even now it never entered his mind 
to imagine that Corona would condone his offence ; he 
felt sure that she was deeply wounded, and that his next 
meeting with her would be a terrible ordeal — so terrible, 
indeed, that he doubted whether he had the courage to 
meet her at all. His love was so great, and its object so 
sacred to him, that he hesitated to conceive himself loved 
in return; perhaps if he had been able to understand 
that Corona loved him he would have left Borne for ever, 
rather than trouble her peace by his presence. 


110 


SARACINESCA. 


It would have been absolutely different if he had been 
paying court to Donna Tullia, for instance. The feeling 
that he should be justified would have lent him courage, 
and the coldness in his own heart would have left his 
judgment free play. He could have watched her calmly, 
and would have tried to take advantage of every mood in 
the prosecution of his suit. He was a very honourable 
man, but he did not consider marriages of propriety and 
convenience as being at all contrary to the ordinary stand- 
ard of social honour, and would have thought himself jus- 
tified in using every means of persuasion in order to win 
a woman whom, upon mature reflection, he had judged 
suitable to become his wife, even though he felt no real 
love for her. That is an idea inherent in most old 
countries, an idea for which Giovanni Saracinesca was 
certainly in no way responsible, seeing that it had been 
instilled into him from his boyhood. Personally he would 
have preferred to live and die unmarried, rather than to 
take a wife as a matter of obligation towards his family ; 
but seeing that he had never seriously loved any woman, 
he had acquired the habit of contemplating such a mar- 
riage as a probability, perhaps as an ultimate necessity, to 
be put off as long as possible, but to which he would at 
last yield with a good grace. 

But the current of his life had been turned. He was 
certainly not a romantic character, not a man who desired 
to experience the external sensations to be obtained by 
voluntarily creating dramatic events. He loved action, 
and he had a taste for danger, but he had sought both in 
a legitimate way ; he never desired to implicate himself in 
adventures where the feelings were concerned, and hith- 
erto such experiences had not fallen in his path. As is 
usual with such men, when love came at last, it came with 
a strength such as boys of twenty do not dream of. The 
mature man of thirty years, with his strong and dominant 
temper, his carelessness of danger, his high and untried 
ideals of what a true affection should be, resisting the first 
impressions of the master-passion with the indifference of 


SARACINESCA. Ill 

one accustomed to believe that love could not come near 
his life, and was in general a thing to be avoided— a man, 
moreover, who by his individual gifts and by his brilliant 
position was able to command much that smaller men 
would not dream of aspiring to, — such a man, in short, as 
Giovanni Saracinesca, — was not likely to experience love- 
sickness in a mild degree. Proud, despotic, and fiercely 
unyielding by his inheritance of temper, he was out- 
wardly gentle and courteous by acquired habit, a man 
of those whom women easily love and men very generally 
fear. 

He did not realise his own nature, he did not suspect 
the extremes of feeling of which he was eminently capable. 
He had at first felt Corona’s influence, and her face and 
voice seemed to awaken in him a memory, which was as 
yet but an anticipation, and not a real remembrance. It 
was as the faint perfume of the spring wafted up to a 
prisoner in some stern fortress, as the first gentle sweetness 
that rose from the enchanted lakes of the cisalpine country 
to the nostrils of the war-hardened Goths as they de- 
scended the last snow-slopes in their southern wandering 
— an anticipation that seemed already a memory, a looking 
forward again to something that had been already loved in 
a former state. Giovanni had laughed at himself for it 
at first, then he had dreaded its growing charm, and at the 
last he had fallen hopelessly under the spell, retaining only 
enough of his former self to make him determined that the 
harm which had come upon himself should not come near 
this woman whom he so adored. 

And behold, at the first provocation, the very first time 
that by a careless word she had fired his blood and set his 
brain throbbing, he had not only been unable to hide what 
he felt, but had spoken such words as he would not have 
believed he could speak — so bluntly, so roughly, that she 
had almost fainted before his very eyes. 

She must have been very angry, he thought. Perhaps, 
too, she was frightened. It was so rude, so utterly con- 
trary to all that was chivalrous to say thus at the first 


112 


SARACINESCA. 


opportunity, “I love you” — just that and nothing more. 
Giovanni had never thought much about it, but he sup- 
posed that men in love, very seriously in love, must take 
a long time to express themselves, as is the manner in 
books ; whereas he was horrified at his own bluntness in 
having blurted out rashly such words as could never be 
taken back, as could never even be explained now, he 
feared, because he had put himself beyond the pale of all 
explanation, perhaps beyond the reach of forgiveness. 

Nobody ever yet explained away the distinct statement 
“ I love you,” upon any pretence of a mistake. Giovanni 
almost laughed at the idea, and yet he conceived that 
some kind of apology would be necessary, though he 
could not imagine how he was to frame one. He re- 
flected that few women would consider a declaration, 
even as sudden as his had been, in the light of an insult ; 
but he knew how little cause Corona had given him for 
speaking to her of love, and he judged from her manner 
that she had been either offended or frightened, or both, 
and that he was to blame for it. He was greatly dis- 
turbed, and the sweat stood in great drops upon his fore- 
head as he sat there upon the steps of St. Peter’s in the 
cold night wind. He remained dearly an hour without 
changing his position, and then at last he rose and slowly 
retraced his steps, and went home by narrew streets, 
avoiding the theatre and the crowd of carriages that 
stood before it. 

He had almost determined to go away for a time, and 
to let his absence speak for his contrition. But he had 
reckoned upon his former self, and he doubted now 
whether he had the strength to leave Borne. The most 
that seemed possible was that he should keep out of 
Corona’s way for a few days, until she should have 
recovered from the shock of the scene in the theatre. 
After that he would go to her and tell her quite simply 
that he was very sorry, but that he had been unable to 
control himself. It would soon be over. She would not 
refuse to speak to him, he argued, for fear of attracting 


SAEACINESCA. 


113 


the attention of the gossips and making an open scandal. 
She would perhaps tell him to avoid her, and her words 
would be few and haughty, but she would speak to him, 
nevertheless. 

Giovanni went to bed. The next day he gave out that 
he had a touch of fever, and remained in his own apart- 
ments. His father, who was passionately attached to 
him, in spite of his rough temper and hasty speeches, 
came and spent most of the day with him, and in the 
intervals of his kindly talk, marched up and down the 
room, swearing that Giovanni was no more ill than he 
was himself, and that lie had acquired his accursed habit 
of staying in bed upon his travels. As Giovanni had 
never before been known to spend twenty-four hours in 
bed for any reason whatsoever, the accusation was un- 
just; but he only smiled and pretended to argue the 
case for the sake of pleasing the old prince. He really 
felt exceedingly uncomfortable, and would have been 
glad to be left alone at any price ; but there was nothing 
for it but to pretend to be ill in body, when he was really 
sick at heart, and he remained obstinately in bed the 
whole day. On the following morning he declared his 
intention of going out of town, and by an early train he 
left the city. No one saw Giovanni again until the 
evening of the Frangipani ball. 

Meanwhile it would have surprised him greatly to know 
that Corona looked for him in vain wherever she went, 
and that, not seeing him, she grew silent and pale, and 
gave short answers to the pleasant speeches men made 
her. Every one missed Giovanni. He wrote to Valdarno 
to say that he had been suddenly obliged to visit Sara- 
cinesca in order to see to some details connected with the 
timber question ; but everybody wondered why he should 
have taken himself away in the height of the season for 
so trivial a matter. He had last been seen in the Astrar- 
dente box at the opera, where he had only stayed a few 
minutes, as Del Ferice was able to testify, having sat 
immediately opposite in the box of Madame Mayer. Del 

H 


114 


SAKACINESCA. 


Ferice swore secretly that he would find out what was 
the matter; and Donna Tullia abused Giovanni in un- 
measured terms to a circle of intimate friends and admir- 
ers, because he had been engaged to dance with her at the 
Valdarno cotillon, and had not even sent word that he 
could not come. Thereupon all the men present imme- 
diately offered themselves for the vacant dance, and 
Donna Tullia made them draw lots by tossing a copper 
sou in the corner of the ball-room. The man who won 
the toss recklessly threw over the partner he had al- 
ready engaged, and almost had to fight a duel in conse- 
quence ; all of which was intensely amusing to Donna 
Tullia. Nevertheless, in her heart, she was very angry 
at Giovanni’s departure. 

But Corona sought him everywhere, and at last heard 
that he had left town, two days after everybody else in 
Borne had known it. She would probably have been very 
much disturbed, if she had actually met him within a day 
or two of that fatal evening, but the desire to see him was 
so great, that she entirely overlooked the consequences. 
For the time being, her whole life seemed to have under- 
gone a revolution — she trembled at the echo of the words 
she had heard — she spent long hours in solitude, praying 
with all her strength that she might be forgiven for having 
heard him speak ; but the moment she left her*room, and 
went out into the world, the dominant desire to see him 
again returned. The secret longing of her soul was to 
hear him speak again as he had spoken once. She would 
have gone again to Padre Filippo and told him all ; but 
when she was alone in the solitude of her passionate pray- 
ers and self-accusation, she felt that she must fight this 
fight alone, without help of any one ; and when she was 
in the world, she lacked courage to put altogether from her 
what was so very sweet, and her eyes searched unceasingly 
for the dark face she loved. But the stirring strength of 
the mighty passion played upon her soul and body in spite 
of her, as upon an instrument of strings ; and sometimes 
the music was gentle and full of sweet harmony, but often 


SARACINESCA. 


115 


there were crashes of discord, so that she trembled and felt 
her heart wrung as by torture ; then she set her strong 
lips, and her white fingers wound themselves together, and 
she could have cried aloud, but that her pride forbade her. 

The days came and went, but Giovanni did not return, 
and Corona’s face grew every morning more pale and her 
eyes every night more wistful. Her husband did not un- 
derstand, but he saw that something was the matter, as 
others saw it, and in his quick suspicious humour he con- 
nected the trouble in his wife’s face with the absence of 
Giovanni and with the strange chill she had felt in the 
theatre. But Corona d’Astrardente was a very brave and 
strong woman, and she bore what seemed to her like the 
agony of death renewed each day, so calmly that those 
who knew her thought it was but a passing indisposition 
or annoyance, unusual with her, who was never ill nor 
troubled,, but yet insignificant. She gave particular atten- 
tion to the gown which her husband had desired she 
should wean at the great ball, and the need she felt for 
distracting her mind from her chief care made society 
necessary to her. 

The evening of the Frangipani ball came, and all Borne 
was in a state of excitement and expectation. The great 
old family had been in mourning for years, owing to three 
successive deaths, and during all that time the ancient 
stronghold which was called their palace had been closed 
to the world. For some time, indeed, no one of the name 
had been in Borne — the prince and princess preferring to 
pass the time of mourning in the country and in travel- 
ling; while the eldest son, now just of age, was finishing 
his academic career at an English University. But this 
year the family had returned : there had been both dinners 
and receptions at the palace, and the ball, which was to be 
a sort of festival in honour of the coming of age of the 
heir, was expected as the principal event of the year. It 
was rumoured that there would be nearly thirty rooms 
opened besides the great hall, which was set aside for danc- 
ing, and that the arrangements were on a scale worthy of 


116 


SARACINESCA. 


a household which had endured in its high position for up- 
wards of a thousand years. It was understood that no 
distinction had been made, in issuing the invitations, be- 
tween parties in politics or in society, and that there 
would be more people seen there than had been collected 
under one roof for many years. 

The Frangipani did things magnificently, and no one 
was disappointed. The gardens and courts of the palace 
were brilliantly illuminated ; vast suites of apartments 
were thrown open, and lavishly decorated with rare 
flowers ; the grand staircase was lined with footmen in 
the liveries of the house, standing motionless as the guests 
passed up ; the supper was a banquet such as is read of in 
the chronicles of medieval splendour; the enormous con- 
servatory in the distant south wing was softly lit by 
shaded candles concealed among the tropical plants ; and 
the ceilings and walls of the great hall itself had been 
newly decorated by famous painters ; while the polished 
wooden floor presented an innovation upon the old- 
fashioned canvas-covered brick pavement, not hitherto 
seen in any Roman palace. A thousand candles, disposed 
in every variety of chandelier and candelabra, shed a soft 
rich light from far above, and high in the gallery atTme end 
an orchestra of Viennese musicians played unceasingly. 

As generally happens at very large balls, the dancing 
began late, but numbers of persons had come early in 
order to survey the wonders of the palace at their leisure. 
Among those who arrived soon after ten o’clock was 
Giovanni Saracinesca, who was greeted loudly by all who 
knew him. He looked pale and tired, if his tough nature 
could ever be said to seem weary ; but he was in an un- 
usually affable mood, and exchanged words with every 
one he met. Indeed he had been sad for so many days 
that he hardly understood why he felt gay, unless it was 
in the anticipation of once more seeing the woman he 
loved. He wandered through the rooms carelessly enough, 
but he was in reality devoured by impatience, and his 
quick eyes sought Corona’s tall figure in every direction. 


SARACINESCA. 


117 


But she was not yet there, and Giovanni at last came 
and took his station in one of the outer halls, waiting 
patiently for her arrival. 

While he waited, leaning against one of the marble 
pillars of the door, the throng increased rapidly ; but he 
hardly noticed the swelling crowd, until suddenly there 
was a lull in the unceasing talk, and the men and women 
parted to allow a cardinal to pass out from the inner rooms. 
With many gracious nods and winning looks, the great 
man moved on, his keen eyes embracing every one and 
everything within the range of his vision, his courteous 
smile seeming intended for each separate individual, and 
yet overlooking none, nor resting long on any, his high 
brow serene and unbent, his flowing robes falling back 
from his courtly figure, as with his red hat in his hand 
he bowed his way through the bowing crowd. His de- 
parture, which was quickly followed by that of several 
other cardinals and prelates, was the signal that the 
dancing would soon begin ; and when he had passed out, 
the throng of men and women pressed more quickly in 
through the door on their way to the ball-room. 

But as the great cardinal’s eye rested on Giovanni 
Saracinesca, accompanied by that invariable smile that so 
many can remember well to this day, his delicate hand 
made a gesture as though beckoning to the young man 
to follow him. Giovanni obeyed the summons, and be- 
came for the moment the most notable man in the room. 
The two passed out together, and a moment later were 
standing in the outer hall. Already the torch-bearers were 
standing without upon the grand staircase, and the lackeys 
were mustering in long files to salute the Prime Minister. 
Just then the master of the house came running breathless 
from within. He had not seen that Cardinal Antonelli 
was taking his leave, and hastened to overtake him, lest 
any breach of etiquette on his part should attract the 
displeasure of the statesman. 

“ Your Eminence’s pardon !” he exclaimed, hurriedly. 
“I had not seen that your Eminence was leaving us — so 
early too — the Princess feared ” 


118 


SARACINESCA. 


“Do not speak of it,” answered the Cardinal, in suave 
tones. “I am not so strong as I used to be. We old 
fellows must to bed betimes, and leave you young ones to 
enjoy yourselves. No excuses — good night — a beautiful 
ball — I congratulate you on the reopening of your house 
— good night again. I will have a word with Giovanni 
here before I go down-stairs.” 

He extended his hand to Frangipani, who lifted it re- 
spectfully to his lips and withdrew, seeing that he was not 
wanted. He and many others speculated long upon the 
business which engaged his Eminence in close conversation 
with Giovanni Saracinesca, keeping him for more than a 
quarter of an hour in the cold ante-chamber, where the 
night wind blew in unhindered from the vast staircase of 
the palace. As a matter of fact, Giovanni was as much 
surprised as any one. 

“ Where have you been, my friend ? ” inquired the Car- 
dinal, when they were alone. 

“To Saracinesca, your Eminence.” 

“ And what have you been doing in Saracinesca at this 
time of year ? I hope you are attending to the woods 
there — you have not been cutting timber ? ” 

“ No one can be more anxious than we to see the woods 
grow thick upon our hills,” replied Giovanni. “Your 
Eminence need have no fear.” 

“Not for your estates,” said the great Cardinal, his small 
keen black eyes resting searchingly on Giovanni’s face. 
“But I confess I have some fears for yourself.” 

“ For me, Eminence ? ” repeated Giovanni, in some as- 
tonishment. 

“ For you. I have heard with considerable anxiety that 
there is a question of marrying you to Madame Mayer. 
Such a match would not meet with the Holy Father’s ap- 
proval, nor — if I may be permitted to mention my humble 
self in the same breath with our august sovereign — would 
it be wise in my own estimation.” 

“Permit me to remark to your Eminence,” answered 
Giovanni, proudly, “ that in my house we have never been 


SARACINESCA. 


119 


in the habit of asking advice' upon such subjects. Donna 
Tullia is a good Catholic. There can therefore be no valid 
objection to my asking her hand, if my father and I agree 
that it is best.” 

“ You are terrible fellows, you Saracinesca,” returned 
the Cardinal, blandly. “ I have read your family history 
with immense interest, and what you say is quite true. I 
cannot find an instance on record of your taking the ad- 
vice of any one — certainly not of the Holy Church. It is 
with the utmost circumspection that I venture to approach 
the subject with you, and I am sure that you will believe 
me when I say that my words are not dictated by any 
officious or meddling spirit ; I am addressing you by the 
direct desire of the Holy Father himself.” 

A soft answer turneth away wrath, and if the all-pow- 
erful statesman’s answer to Giovanni seems to have been 
more soft than might have been expected, it must be re- 
membered that he was speaking to the heir of one of the 
most powerful houses in the Roman State, at a time when 
the personal friendship of such men as the Saracinesca was 
of vastly greater importance than it is now. At that time 
some twenty noblemen owned a great part of the Pontifical 
States, and the influence they could exert upon their ten- 
antry was very great, for the feudal system was not ex- 
tinct, nor the feudal spirit. Moreover, though Cardinal 
Antonelli was far from popular with any party, Pius IX. 
was respected and beloved by a vast majority of the gen- 
tlemen as well as of the people. Giovanni’s first impulse 
was to resist any interference whatsoever in his affairs ; 
but on receiving the Cardinal’s mild answer to his own 
somewhat arrogant assertion of independence, he bowed 
politely and professed himself willing to listen to 
reason. 

“But,” he said, “since his Holiness has mentioned the 
matter, I beg that your Eminence will inform him that, 
though the question of my marriage seems to be in every- 
body’s mouth, it is as yet merely a project in which no 
active steps have been taken.” 


120 


SARACINESCA. 


“I am glad of it, Giovanni/’ replied the Cardinal, fa- 
miliarly taking his arm, and beginning to pace the hall ; 
“ I am glad of it. There are reasons why the match ap- 
pears to be unworthy of you. If you will permit me, 
without any offence to Madame Mayer, I will tell you 
what those reasons are.” 

“I am at your service,” said Giovanni, gravely, “ pro- 
vided only there is no offence to Donna Tullia.” 

“None whatever. The reasons are purely political. 
Madame Mayer — or Donna Tullia, since you prefer to call 
her so — is the centre of a sort of club of so-called Liberals, 
of whom the most active and the most foolish member is 
a certain Ugo del Ferice, a fellow who calls himself a 
count, but whose grandfather was a coachman in the Vati- 
can under Leo XII. He will get himself into trouble 
some day. He is always in attendance upon Donna 
Tullia, and probably led her into this band of foolish 
young people for objects of his own. It is a very silly 
society ; I daresay you have heard some of their talk ? ” 

“Very little,” replied Giovanni; “I do not trouble 
myself about politics. I did not even know that there 
was such a club as your Eminence speaks of.” 

Cardinal Antonelli glanced sharply at his companion as 
he proceeded. 

“ They affect solidarity and secrecy, these young peo- 
ple,” he said, with a sneer, “ and their solidarity betrays 
their secrecy, because it is unfortunately true in our dear 
Koine that wherever two or three are gathered together 
they are engaged in some mischief. But they may gather 
in peace at the studio of Monsieur Gouache, or anywhere 
else they please, for all. I care. Gouache is a clever fel- 
low ; he is to paint my portrait. Do you know him ? 
But, to return to my sheep in wolves’ clothing — my amus- 
ing little conspirators. They can do no harm, for they 
know not even what they say, and their words are not 
followed by any kind of action whatsoever. But the 
principle of the thing is bad, Giovanni. Your brave old 
ancestors used to fight us Churchmen outright, and unless 


SARACINESCA. 


121 


the Lord is especially merciful, their souls are in an evil 
case, for the devil knoweth his own, and is a particularly 
bad paymaster. But they fought outright, like gentle- 
men ; whereas these people — foderunt foveam ut caperent 
me — they have digged a ditch, but they will certainly 
not catch me, nor any one else. Their conciliabules, as 
liousseau would have called them, meet daily and talk 
great nonsense and do nothing; which does not prove 
their principles to be good, while it demonstrates their 
intellect to be contemptible. No offence to the Signor 
Conte del Ferice, but I think ignorance has marked his 
little party for its own, and inanity waits on all his coun- 
cils. If they believe in half the absurdities they utter, 
why do they not pack up their goods and chattels and 
cross the frontier ? If they meant anything, they would 
do something.” 

“Evidently,” replied Giovanni, half amused at his 
Eminence’s tirade. 

“ Evidently. Therefore they mean nothing. Therefore 
our good friend Donna Tullia is dabbling in the emptiness 
of political dilettanteism for the satisfaction of a hollow 
vanity ; no offence to her — it is the manner of her kind.” 

Giovanni was silent. 

“Believe me, prince,” said the Cardinal, suddenly 
changing his tone and speaking very seriously, “ there is 
something better for strong men like you and me to do, 
in these times, than to dabble in conspiracy and to toss 
off glasses of champagne to Italian unity and Victor 
Emmanuel. The condition of our lives is battle, and bat- 
tle against terrible odds. Neither you nor I should be 
content to waste our strength in lighting shadows, in 
waging war on petty troubles of our own raising, know- 
ing all the while that the powers of evil are marshalled 
in a deadly array against the powers of good. Sed non 
prcevalebunt ! ” 

The Cardinal’s thin face assumed a strange look of 
determination, and his delicate fingers grasped Giovanni’s 
arm with a force that startled him. 


122 


SAKACINESCA. 


“ You speak bravely,” answered the young man. “ You 
are more sanguine than we men of the world. You 
believe that disaster impossible which to me seems grow- 
ing daily more imminent.” 

Cardinal Antonelli turned his gleaming black eyes full 
on his companion. 

“ 0 generatio incredula ! If you have not faith, you have 
not courage, and if you have not courage you will waste 
your life in the pursuit of emptiness ! It is for men like 
you, for men of ancient race, of broad acres, of iron body 
and healthy mind, to put your hand to the good work and 
help us who have struggled for many years and whose 
strength is already failing. Every action of your life, 
every thought of your waking hours, should be for the 
good end, lest we all perish together and expiate our luke- 
warm indifference. Timidi nunquam statuerunt tropceum 
— if we would divide the spoil we must gird on the sword 
and use it boldly ; we must not allow the possibility of 
failure ; we must be vigilant ; we must be united as one 
man. You tell me that you men of the world already 
regard a disaster as imminent — to expect defeat is nine- 
tenths of a defeat itself. Ah, if we could count upon 
such men as you to the very death, our case would be far 
from desperate.” 

“ For the matter of that, your Eminence can~count upon 
us well enough,” replied Giovanni, quietly. 

“ Upon you, Giovanni — yes, for you are a brave gentle- 
man. But upon your friends, even upon your class — no. 
Can I count upon the Valdarno, ev.en ? You know as well 
as I that they are in sympathy with the Liberals — that 
they have neither the courage to support us nor the au- 
dacity to renounce us ; and, what is worse, they represent 
a large class, of whom, I regret to say, Donna Tullia 
Mayer is one of the most prominent members. With her 
wealth, her youth, her effervescent spirits, and her early 
widowhood, she leads men after her; they talk, they 
chatter, they set up an opinion and gloat over it, while 
they lack the spirit to support it. They are all alike — 


SARACINESCA. 


123 


non tantum ovum ovo simile — one egg is not more like 
another than they are. Non tali auxilio — we want no 
such help. We ask for bread, not for stones; we want 
men, not empty-headed dandies. We have both at 
present ; but if the Emperor fails us, we shall have too 
many dandies and too few men — too few men like you, 
Don Giovanni. Instead of armed battalions we shall 
have polite societies for mutual assurance against political 
risks, — instead of the support of the greatest military 
power in Europe, we shall have to rely on a parcel of 
young gentlemen whose opinions are guided by Donna 
Tullia Mayer.” 

Giovanni laughed and glanced at his Eminence, who 
chose to refer all the imminent disasters of the State to 
the lady whom he did not wish to see married to his com- 
panion. 

“ Is her influence really so great ? ” asked Saracinesca, 
incredulously. 

“ She is agreeable, she is pretty, she is rich — her influ- 
ence is a type of the whole influence which is abroad in 
Rome — a reflection of the "life of Paris. There, at least, 
the women play a real part — very often a great one : here, 
when they have got command of a drawing-room full of 
fops, they do not know where to lead them ; they change 
their minds twenty times a-day ; they have an access of 
religious enthusiasm in Advent, followed by an attack of 
Liberal fever in Carnival, and their season is brought to 
a fitting termination by the prostration which overtakes 
them in Lent. By that time all their principles are upset, 
and they go to Paris for the month of May — pour se re- 
tremper dans les idees idealistes, as they express it. Do 
you think one could construct a party out of such elements, 
especially when you reflect that this mass of uncertainty 
is certain always to yield to the ultimate consideration of 
self-interest? Half of them keep an Italian flag with the 
Papal one, ready to thrust either of them out of the win- 
dow as occasion may require. Good night, Giovanni. I 
have talked enough, and all Rome will set upon you to 


124 


SARACINESCA. 


find out what secrets of State I have been confiding. You 
had better prepare an answer, for you can hardly inform 
Donna Tullia and her set that I have been calling them 
a parcel of — weak and ill-advised people. They might 
take offence — they might even call me by bad names, — 
fancy how very terribly that would afflict me ! Good 
night, Giovanni — my greetings to your father/’ 

The Cardinal nodded, but did not offer his hand. He 
knew that Giovanni hated to kiss his ring, and he had too 
much tact to press the ceremonial etiquette upon any one 
whom, he desired to influence. But he nodded graciously, 
and receiving his cloak from the gentleman who accom- 
panied him and who had waited at a respectful distance, 
the statesman passed out of the great doorway, where the 
double line of torch-bearers stood ready to accompany 
him down the grand staircase to his carriage, in accord- 
ance with the custom of those days. 


CHAPTER X. 

When he was alone, Giovanni retraced his steps, and 
again took up his position near the entrance te the recep- 
tion-rooms. He had matter for reflection in the inter- 
view which had just ended ; and, having nothing better 
to do while he waited for Corona, he thought about what 
had happened. He was not altogether pleased at the 
interest his marriage excited in high quarters ; he hated 
interference, and he regarded Cardinal Antonelli’s advice 
in such a matter as an interference of the most unwar- 
rantable kind. Neither he himself nor his father were 
men who sought counsel from without, for independence 
in action was with them a family tradition, as independ- 
ence of thought was in their race a hereditary quality. 
To think that if he, Giovanni Saracinesca, chose to marry 
any woman whatsoever, any one, no matter how exalted 


SARACINESCA. 


125 


in station, should dare to express approval or disapproval 
was a shock to every inborn and cultivated prejudice in 
his nature. He had nearly quarrelled with his own 
father for seeking to influence his matrimonial projects ; 
it was not likely that he would suffer Cardinal Antonelli 
to interfere with them. If Giovanni had really made up 
his mind — had firmly determined to ask the hand of 
Donna Tullia — it is more than probable that the states- 
man’s advice would not only have failed signally in 
preventing the match, but by the very opposition it 
would have aroused in Giovanni’s heart it would have 
had the effect of throwing him into the arms of a party 
which already desired his adhesion, and which, under his 
guidance, might have become as formidable as it was 
previously insignificant. But the great Cardinal was 
probably well informed, and his words had not fallen 
upon a barren soil. Giovanni had vacillated sadly in 
trying to come to a decision. His first Quixotic impulse 
to marry Madame Mayer, in order to show the world that 
he cared nothing for Corona d’Astrardente, had proved 
itself absurd, even to his impetuous intelligence. The 
growing antipathy he felt for Donna Tullia had made his 
marriage with her appear in the light of a disagreeable 
duty, and his rashness in confessing his love for Corona 
had so disturbed his previous conceptions that marriage 
no longer seemed a duty at all. What had been but a 
few days before almost a fixed resolution, had dwindled 
till it seemed an impracticable and even a useless scheme. 
When he had arrived at the Palazzo Frangipani that 
evening, he had very nearly forgotten Donna Tullia, and 
had quite determined that whatever his father might say 
he would not give the promised answer before Easter. 
By the time the Cardinal had left him, he had decided 
that no power on earth should induce him to marry 
Madame Mayer. He did not take the trouble of saying 
to himself that he would marry no one else. 

The Cardinal’s words had struck deep, in a deep nature. 
Giovanni had given Del Ferice a very fair exposition of 


126 


SARACINESCA. 


the views he believed himself to hold, on the day when 
they had walked together after Donna Tullia’s picnic. 
He believed himself a practical man, loyal to the tem- 
poral power by principle rather than by any sort of 
enthusiastic devotion ; not desirous of any great change, 
because any change that might reasonably be expected 
would be bad for his own vested interests ; not preju- 
diced for any policy save that of peace — preferring, 
indeed, with Cicero, the most unjust peace to the most 
just war ; tenacious of old customs, and not particularly 
inquisitive concerning ideas of progress, — on the whole, 
Giovanni thought himself what his father had been in 
his youth, and more or less what he hoped his sons, if he 
ever had any, would be after him. 

But there was more in him than all this, and at the 
first distant sound of battle he felt the spirit stir within 
him, for his real nature was brave and loyal, unselfish and 
devoted, instinctively sympathizing with the weak and 
hating the lukewarm. He had told Del Ferice that he 
believed he would fight as a matter of principle : as he 
leaned against the marble pillar of the door in the Palazzo 
Frangipani, he wished the fight had already begun. 

Waiting there, and staring into the moving crowd, he 
was aware of a young man with pale and delicate features 
and black hair, who stood quietly by his side, and seemed 
like himself an idle though not uninterested spectator of 
the scene. Giovanni glanced once at the young fellow, 
and thought he recognised him, and glancing again, he met 
his earnest look, and saw that it was Anastase Gouache, 
the painter. Giovanni knew him slightly, for Gouache 
' was regarded as a rising celebrity, and, thanks to Donna 
Tullia, was invited to most of the great receptions and 
balls of that season, though he was not yet anywhere on 
a footing of intimacy. Gouache was proud, and would 
perhaps have stood aloof altogether rather than be treated 
as one of the herd who are asked “ with everybody,” as 
the phrase goes; but he was of an observing turn of mind, 
and it amused him immensely to stand unnoticed, follow- 


SARACINESCA. 


127 


ing the movements of society’s planets, comets, and satel- 
lites, and studying the many types of the cosmopolitan 
Roman world. 

“Good evening, Monsieur Gouache,” said Giovanni. 

“Good evening, prince,” replied the artist, with a 
somewhat formal bow — after which both men relapsed 
into silence, and continued to watch the crowd. 

“ And what do you think of our Roman world ? ” 
asked Giovanni, presently. 

“ I cannot compare it to any other world,” answered 
Gouache, simply. “I never went into society till I came 
t'o Rome. I think it is at once brilliant and sedate — it 
has a magnificent air of historical antiquity, and it is a 
little paradoxical.” 

“ Where is the paradox ? ” inquired Giovanni. 

“ ‘ Es-tu libre ? Les loi's sont-elles respectSes ? 

Crains- tu de voir ton champ pill 6 par le voisin ? 

Le maitre a-t-il son toit, et l’ouvrier son pain ? ’ ” 

A smile flickered over the young artist’s face as he 
quoted Musset’s lines in answer to Giovanni’s question. 
Giovanni himself laughed, and looked at Anastase with 
somewhat increased interest. 

“ Do you mean that we are revelling under the sword 
of Damocles — dancing on the eve of our execution ? ” 

“Not precisely. A delicate flavour of uncertainty about 
to-morrow gives zest to the appetite of to-day. It is im- 
possible that such a large society should be wholly uncon- 
scious of its own imminent danger — and yet these men 
and women go about to-night as if they were Romans of 
old, rulers of the world, only less sure of themselves than 
of the stability of their empire.” 

“Why not?” asked Giovanni, glancing curiously at the 
pale young man beside him. “ In answer to your quota- 
tion, I can say that I am as free as I care to be ; that the 
laws are sufficiently respected ; that no one has hitherto 
thought it worth while to plunder my acres ; that I have 
a modest roof of my own ; and that, as far as I am aware, 


128 


SARACINESCA. 


there are no workmen starving in the streets at present. 
You are answered, it seems to me, Monsieur Gouache.” 

“Is that really your belief ? ” asked the artist, quietly. 

“ Yes. As for my freedom, I am as free as air ; no one 
thinks of hindering my movements. As for the laws, they 
are made for good citizens, and good citizens will respect 
them; if bad citizens do not, that is their loss. My acres 
are safe, possibly because they are not worth taking, 
though they yield me a modest competence sufficient for 
my needs and for the needs of those who cultivate them 
for me.” 

“ And yet there is a great deal of talk in Borne about 
misery and injustice and oppression ” 

“There will be a great deal more talk about those evils, 
with much better cause, if people who think like you suc- 
ceed in bringing about a revolution, Monsieur Gouache,” 
answered Giovanni, coldly. 

“ If many people think like you, prince, a revolution 
is not to be thought of. As for me I am a foreigner and 
I see what I can, and listen to what I hear.” 

“ A revolution is not to be thought of. It was tried 
here and failed. If we are overcome by a great power 
from without, we shall have no choice but to yield, if 
any of us survive — for we would fight. But we have 
nothing to fear from within.” 

“ Perhaps not,” returned Gouache, thoughtfully. “ I 
hear such opposite opinions that I hardly know what to 
think.” 

“ I hear that you are to paint Cardinal Antonelli’s por- 
trait,” said Giovanni. “Perhaps his Eminence will help 
you to decide.” 

“Yes; they say he is the cleverest man in Europe.” 

“In that opinion they — whoever they may be — are 
mistaken,” replied Giovanni. “But he is a man of im- 
mense intellect, nevertheless.” 

“ I am not sure whether I will paint his portrait after 
all,” said Gouache. 

“You do not wish to be persuaded ? ” 


SARACINESCA. 


129 


“No. My own ideas please me very well for the pres- 
ent. I would not exchange them for those of any one else.” 

“ May I ask what those ideas are ? ” inquired Giovanni, 
with a show of interest. 

“I am a republican,” answered Gouache, quietly. “I 
am also a good Catholic.” 

“ Then you are yourself much more paradoxical than 
the whole of our Boman society put together,” answered 
Giovanni, with a dry laugh. 

“Perhaps. There comes the most beautiful woman in 
the world.” 

It was nearly twelve o’clock when Corona arrived, old 
Astrardente sauntering jauntily by her side, his face ar- 
ranged with more than usual care, and his glossy wig 
curled cunningly to represent nature. He was said to 
possess a number of wigs of different lengths, which he 
wore in rotation, thus sustaining the impression that his 
hair was cut from time to time. In hj^eye a single eye- 
glass was adjusted, and as he walked he swung his hat 
delicately in his tightly gloved fingers. He wore the 
plainest of collars and the simplest of gold studs ; no chain 
dangled showily from his waistcoat-pocket, and his small 
feet were encased in little patent-leather shoes. But for 
his painted face, he might have passed for the very incar- 
nation of fashionable simplicity. But his face betrayed 
him. 

As for Corona, she was dazzlingly beautiful. Not that 
any colour or material she wore could greatly enhance her 
beauty, for all who saw her on that memorable night re- 
membered the wonderful light in her face, and the strange 
look in her splendid eyes ; bat the thick soft fall of the 
white velvet made as it were a pedestal for her loveliness, 
and the Astrardente jewels that clasped her waist and 
throat and crowned her black hair, collected the radiance 
of the many candles, and made the light cling to her and 
follow her as she walked. Giovanni saw her enter, and 
his whole adoration came upon him as a madness upon a 
sick man in a fever, so that he would have sprung forward 

i 


130 


SARACINESCA. 


to meet her, and fallen at her feet and worshipped her, 
had he not suddenly felt that he was watched by more 
than one of the many who paused to see her go by. He 
moved from his place and waited near the door where she 
would have to pass, and for a moment his heart stood still. 

He hardly knew how it was. He found himself speak- 
ing to her. He asked her for a dance, he asked boldly for 
the cotillon — he never knew how he had dared ; she as- 
sented, let her eyes rest upon him for one moment with an 
indescribable expression, then grew very calm and cold, 
and passed on. 

It was all over in an instant. Giovanni moved back 
to his place as she went by, and stood still like a man 
stunned. It was well that there were yet nearly two 
hours before the preliminary dancing would ber over ; he 
needed some time to collect himself. The air seemed full 
of strange voices, and he watched the moving faces as in 
a dream, unable to concentrate his attention upon any- 
thing he saw. 

“ He looks as though he had a stroke of paralysis,” said 
a woman’s voice near him. It did not strike him, in his 
strange bewilderment, that it was Donna Tullia who had 
spoken, still less that she was speaking of him almost to 
him. 

“ Something very like it, I should say,” answered Del 
Ferice’s oily voice. “ He has probably been ill since you 
saw him. Saracinesca is an unhealthy place.” 

Giovanni turned sharply round. 

“ Yes ; we were speaking of you, Don Giovanni,” said 
Donna Tullia, with some scorn. “ Does it strike you that 
you were exceedingly rude in not letting me know that 
you were going out of town when you had promised to 
dance with me at the Yaldarno ball ? ” She curled her 
small lip and showed her sharp white teeth. Giovanni 
was a man of the world, however, and was equal to the 
occasion. 

“I apologise most humbly,” he said. “It was indeed 
very rude ; but in the urgency of the case, I forgot all 


SARACINESCA. 131 

other engagements. I really beg your pardon. Will you 
honour me with a dance this evening ? ” 

“I have every dance engaged,” answered Madame 
Mayer, coldly staring at him. 

“ I am very sorry,” said Giovanni, inwardly thanking 
heaven for his good fortune, and wishing she would go 
away. 

“ Wait a moment,” said Donna Tullia, judging that she 
had produced the desired effect upon him. “ Let me look. 
I believe I have one waltz left. Let me see. Yes, the 
one before the last — you can have it if you like.” 

“ Thank you,” murmured Giovanni, greatly annoyed. 
“ I will remember.” 

Madame Mayer laid her hand upon Del Fence’s arm, 
and moved away. She was a vain woman, and being in 
love with Saracinesca after" her own fashion, could not 
understand that he should be wholly indifferent to her. 
She thought that in telling him she had no dances she had 
given him a little wholesome punishment, and that in giv- 
ing one after all she had conferred a favour upon him. 
She also believed that she had annoyed Del Ferice, which 
always amused her. But Del Ferice was more than a 
match for her, with his quiet ways and smooth tongue. 

They went into the ball-room together and danced a few 
minutes. When the music ceased, Ugo excused himself 
on the plea that he was engaged for the quadrille, that 
followed. He at once set out in search of the Duchessa 
d’Astrardente, and did not lose sight of her again. She 
did not dance before the cotillon, she said ; and she sat 
the picture-gallery, while three or 
was Valdarno, sat and stood near 
her, doing their best to amuse her. Others came, and some 
went away, but Corona did not move, and sat amongst 
her little court, glad to have the time pass in any way 
until the cotillon. When Del Ferice had ascertained her 
position, he Went about- his business, which was mani- 
fold — dancing frequently, and making a point of speaking 
to every one in the room. At the end of an hour, he 


down in a high chair in 
four men, among whom 


132 


SARACINESCA. 


joined the group of men around the Duchessa and took 
part in the conversation. 

It was an easy matter to make the talk turn upon 
Giovanni Saracinesca. Every one was more or less curious 
about the journey he had made, and especially about ,the 
cause of his absence. Each of the men had something to 
say, and each, knowing the popular report that Giovanni 
was in love with Corona, said his say with as much wit as 
he could command. Corona herself was interested, for she 
alone understood his sudden absence, and was anxious to 
hear the common opinion concerning it. 

The theories advanced were various. Some said he had 
been quarrelling with the local authorities of Saracinesca, 
who interfered with his developments and improvements 
upon the estate, and they gave laughable portraits of the 
village sages with whom he had been engaged. Others 
said he had only stopped there a day, and had been in 
Naples. One said he had been boar-hunting ; another, 
that the Saracinesca woods had been infested by a band 
of robbers, who were terrorising the country. 

“ And what do you say, Del Ferice ? ” asked Corona, 
seeing a cunning smile upon the man’s pale fat face. 

“It is very simple,” said Ugo ; “it is a very simple 
matter indeed. If the Duchessa will permit me, I will 
call him, and we will ask him directly what he has been 
doing. There he stands with old Cantalorgano at the 
other end of the room. Public curiosity demands to be 
satisfied. May I call him, Duchessa ? ” 

. “By no means,” said Corona, quickly. But before she 
had spoken, Valdarno, who was always sanguine and im- 
pulsive, had rapidly crossed the gallery and was already 
speaking to Giovanni. The latter bowed his head as< 
though obeying an order, and cam6 quietly back with the 
young man ivho had called him. The crowd of men 
parted before him as he advanced to the Duchessa’s chair, 
and stood waiting in some surprise. 

“ What are your commands, Duchessa ? ” he asked, in 
somewhat formal tones. 


SARACINESCA. 


133 


“Valdarno is too quick/’ answered Corona, who was 
greatly annoyed. “Some one suggested calling you to 
settle a dispute, and he went before I could stop him. I 
fear it is very impertinent of us.” 

“ I am entirely at your service,” said Giovanni, who was 
delighted at having been called, and had found time to 
recover from his first excitement on seeing her. “ What 
is the question ? ” 

“We were all talking about you,” said Valdarno. 

“We were wondering where you had been,” said an- 
other. 

* “ They said you had gone boar-hunting.” 

“ Or to Naples.” 

“ Or even to Paris.” Three or four spoke in one breath. 

“l am exceedingly flattered at the interest you all show 
in me,” said Giovanni, quietly. “ There is very little to 
tell. I have been in Saracinesca upon a matter of busi- 
ness, spending my days in the woods with my steward, 
and my nights in keeping away the cold and the ghosts. 
I would have invited you all to join the festivity, had I 
known how much you were interested. The beef up there 
is monstrously tough, and the rats are abominably noisy, 
but the mountain air is said to be very healthy.’’ 

Most of the men present felt that they had not only 
behaved foolishly, but had spoiled the little circle around 
the Duchessa by introducing a man who had the power to 
interest her, whereas they could only afford her a little 
amusement. Valdarno was still standing, and his chaitf 
beside Corona was vacant. Giovanni calmly installed him- 
self upon it, and began to talk as though nothing had 
happened. 

“ You are not dancing, Duchessa,” he remarked. “ I 
suppose you have been in the ball-room ? ” 

“Yes — but I am rather tired this evening. I will 
wait.” 

“ You were here at the last great ball, before the old 
prince died, were you not ? ” asked Giovanni, remembering 
that he had first seen her on that occasion. 


134 


SARACINESCA. 


“ Yes,” she answered ; “ and I remember that we danced 
together ; and the accident to the window, and the story 
of the ghost.” 

So they fell into conversation, and though one or two of 
the men ventured an ineffectual remark, the little circle 
dropped away, and Giovanni was left alone by the side of 
the Duchessa. The distant opening strains of a waltz 
came floating down the gallery, but neither of the two 
heard, nor cared. 

“ It is strange,” Giovanni said. “ They say it has al- 
ways happened, since the memory of man. No one has 
ever seen anything, but whenever there is a great ball, 
there is a crash of broken glass some time in the course of 
the evening. Nobody could ever explain why that window 
fell in, five years ago — five years ago this month, — this 
very day, I believe,” he continued suddenly, in the act of 
recollection. “Yes — the nineteenth of January, I remem- 
ber very well — it was my mother’s birthday.” 

“It is not so extraordinary,” said Corona, “for it chances 
to be the name-day of the present prince. That was prob- 
ably the reason why it was chosen this year.” She spoke 
a little nervously, as though still ill at ease. 

“But it is very strange,” said Giovanni, in a low voice. 
“It is strange that we should have met here the first 
time, and that we should not have met here since, until 
— to-day.” 

He looked towards her as he spoke, and their eyes met 
and lingered in each other’s gaze. Suddenly the blood 
mounted to Corona’s cheeks, her eyelids drooped, she 
leaned back in her seat and was silent. 

Far off, at the entrance to the ball-room, Del Feriqe 
found Donna Tullia alone. She was very angry. The 
dance for which she was engaged to Giovanni Saracinesca 
had begun, and was already half over, and still he did not 
come. Her pink face was unusually flushed, and there 
was a disagreeable look in her blue eyes. 

“ Ah ! — I see Don Giovanni has again forgotten his 
engagement,” said Ugo, in smooth tones. He well knew 


SARACINESCA. 


135 


that he himself had brought about the omission, but 
none could have guessed it from his manner. “ May I 
have the honour of a turn before your cavalier arrives ? ” 
he asked. 

“ No,” said Donna Tullia, angrily. “ Give me your 
arm. We will go and find him.” She almost hissed the 
words through her closed teeth. 

She hardly knew that Del Ferice was leading her as 
they moved towards the picture-gallery, passing through 
the crowded rooms that lay between. She never spoke ; but 
her movement was impetuous, and she resented being 
delayed by the hosts of men and women who filled the 
way. As they entered the long apartment, where the 
portraits of the Frangipani lined the walls from end to 
end, Del Ferice uttered a well-feigned exclamation. 

“ Oh, there he is ! ” he cried. “ Do you see him ? — his 
back is turned — he is alone with the Astrardente.” 

“Come,” said Donna Tullia, shortly. Del Ferice would 
have preferred to have let her go alone, and to have wit- 
nessed from a distance the scene he had brought about. 
But he could not refuse to accompany Madame Mayer. 

Neither Corona, who was facing, the pair, but was talk- 
ing with Giovanni, nor Giovanni himself, who was turned 
away from them, noticed their approach until they came 
and stood still beside them. Saracinesca looked up and 
started. The Duchessa d’ Astrardente raised her black 
eyebrows in surprise. 

“ Our dance ! ” exclaimed Giovanni, in considerable 
agitation. “ It is the one after this ■” 

“ On the contrary,” said Donna Tullia, in tones trem- 
bling with rage, “it is already over. It is the most 
unparalleled insolence ! ” 

Giovanni was profoundly disgusted at himself and 
Donna Tullia. He cared not so much for the humilia- 
tion itself, which was bad enough, as for the annoyance 
the scene caused Corona, who looked from one to the 
other in angry astonishment, but of course could have 
nothing to say. 


136 


SAKACINESCA. 


“ I can only assure you that I thought ” 

“You need not assure me ! ” cried Donna Tullia, losing 
all self-control. “ There is no excuse, nor pardon — it is 
the second time. Do not insult me further, by inventing 
untruths for your apology.” 

“Nevertheless ” began Giovanni, who was sincerely 

sorry for his great rudeness, and would gladly have at- 
tempted to explain his conduct, seeing that Donna Tullia 
was so justly angry. 

“There is no nevertheless!” she interrupted. “You 
may stay where you are,” she added, with a scornful glance . 
at the Duchessa d’Astrardente. Then she laid her hand 
upon Del Fence’s arm, and swept angrily past, so that 
the train of her red silk gown brushed sharply against 
Corona’s soft white velvet. 

Giovanni remained standing a moment, with a puzzled 
expression upon his face. 

“How could you do anything so rude?” asked Corona, 
very gravely. “ She will never forgive you, and she will 
be quite right.” 

“ I do not know how I forgot,” he answered, seating 
himself again. “It is dreadful — unpardonable — but per- 
haps the consequences will be good.” 


CHAPTER XI. 

Corona was ill at ease. In the first few moments of 
being alone with Giovanni the pleasure she felt out- 
weighed all other thoughts. But as the minutes length- 
ened to a quarter of an hour, then to half an hour, she 
grew nervous, and her answers came more and more 
shortly. She said to herself that she should never have 
given him the cotillon, and she wondered how the re- 
mainder of the time would pass. The realisation of what 
had occurred came upon her, and the hot blood rose to 


SARACINESCA. 


13T 


her face and ebbed away again, and rose once more. Yet 
she could not speak out what her pride prompted her to 
say, because she pitied Giovanni a little, and was willing 
to think for a moment that it was only compassion she 
felt, lest she should feel that she must send him away. 

But Giovanni sat beside her, and knew that the spell 
was working upon him, and that there was no salvation. 
He had taken her unawares, though he hardly knew it, 
when she first entered, and he asked her suddenly for a 
dance. He had wondered vaguely why she had so freely 
consented ; but, in the wild delight of being by her side, 
he completely lost all hold upon himself, and yielded to 
the exquisite charm of her presence, as a man who has 
struggled for a moment against a powerful opiate sinks 
under its influence, and involuntarily acknowledges his 
weakness. Strong as he was, his strength was all gone, 
and he knew not where he should find it. 

“ You will have to make her some further apology,” 
said Corona, as Madame Mayer’s red train disappeared 
through the doorway at the other end of the room. 

“Of course — I must do something about it,” said 
Giovanni, absently. “After all, I do not wonder — it is 
amazing that I should have recognised her at all. I 
should forget anything to-night, except that I am to 
dance with you.” 

The Duchessa looked away, and fanned herself slowly ; 
but she sighed, and checked the deep-drawn breath as 
by a great effort. The waltz was over, and the dancers 
streamed through the intervening rooms towards the gal- 
lery in quest of fresher air and freer space. Two and 
two they came, quickly following each other and passing 
on, some filling the high seats along the walls, others 
hastening towards the supper-rooms beyond. A few min- 
utes earlier Saracinesca and Corona had been almost alone 
in the great apartment ; now the}' were surrounded on all 
sides by a chattering crowd of men and women, with 
flushed faces or unnaturally pale, according as the effort 
of dancing affected each, and the indistinguishable din of 


138 


SARACINESCA. 


hundreds of voices so filled the air that Giovanni and the 
Duchessa could hardly hear each other speak. 

“ This is intolerable/’ said Giovanni, suddenly. “ You 
are not engaged for the last quadrille ? Shall we not go 
away until the cotillon begins ? ” 

Corona hesitated a moment, and was silent. She 
glanced once at Giovanni, and again surveyed the moving 
crowd. 

“ Yes,” she said at last ; “let us go away.” 

“You are very good,” answered Giovanni in a low 
voice, as he offered her his arm. She looked at him in- 
quiringly, and her face grew grave, as they slowly made 
their way out of the room. 

At last they came to the conservatory, and went in 
among the great plants and the soft lights. There was 
no one there, and they slowly paced the broad walk that 
was left clear all round the glass-covered chamber, and 
up and down the middle. The plants were disposed so 
thickly as to form almost impenetrable walls of green on 
either side ; and at one end there was an open space 
where a little marble fountain played, around which were 
disposed seats of carved wood. But Giovanni and Corona 
continued to walk slowly along the tiled path. 

“Why did you say I was good just now ?” asked 
Corona at last. Her voice sounded cold. 

“I should not have said it, perhaps,” answered Gio- 
vanni. “I say many things which I cannot help saying. 
I am very sorry.” 

“I am very sorry too,” answered the Duchessa, quietly. 

“ Ah ! if you knew, you would forgive me. If you 
could guess half the truth, you would forgive me.” 

“ I would rather not guess it.” 

“ Of course ; but you have already — you know it all. 
Have I not told you ? ” Giovanni spoke in despairing 
tones. He was utterly weak and spellbound; he could 
hardly find any words at all. 

“ Don Giovanni,” said Corona, speaking very proudly 
and calmly, but pot unkindly, “I have known you so 


SARACINESCA. 


139 


long, I believe you to be so honourable a man, that I am 
willing to suppose that you said — what you said — in a 
moment of madness.” 

“ Madness ! It was madness ; but it is more sweet 
to remember than all the other doings of my life,” said 
Saracinesca, his tongue unloosed at last. “ If it is mad- 
ness to love you, I am mad past all cure. There is no 
healing for me now ; I shall never find my senses again, 
for they are lost in you, and lost for ever. Drive me 
away, crush me, trample on me if you will ; you cannot 
kill me nor kill my madness, for I live in you and for 
you, and I cannot die. That is all. I am not eloquent 
as other men are, to use smooth words and twist phrases. 
I love you ”* 

*“ You have said too much already — too much, far too 
much,” murmured Corona, in broken tones. She had 
withdrawn her hand from his during his passionate 
speech, and stood back from him against the dark wall 
of green plants, her head drooping upon her breast, her 
fingers clasped fast together. His short rude words were 
terribly sweet to hear; it was fearful to think that she 
was alone with him, that one step would bring her to 
his side, that with one passionate impulse she might 
throw her white arms about his neck, that one faltering 
sigh of overwhelming love might bring her queenly head 
down upon his shoulder. Ah, God ! how gladly she 
would let her tears flow and speak for her ! how un- 
utterably sweet it would be to rest for one instant in his 
arms, to love and be loved as she longed to be ! 

“ You are so cold,” he cried, passionately. “ You can- 
not understand. All spoken words are not too much, are 
not enough \ move you, to make you see that I do really 
worship and adore you; you, the whole of you — your glo- 
rious face, your sweet small hands, your queenly ways, 
the light of your eyes, and the words of your lips — all 
of you, body and soul, I love. I would I might die now, 
for you know it, even if you will not understand ” 

He moved a step nearer to her, stretching out his hands 


140 


SARACINESCA. 


as he spoke. Corona trembled convulsively, and her lips 
turned white in the torture of temptation; she leaned far 
back against the green leaves, staring wildly at Giovanni, 
held as in a vice by the mighty passions of love and fear. 
Having yielded her ears to his words, they fascinated her 
horribly. He, poor man, had long lost all control of him- 
self. His resolutions, long pondered in the solitude of 
Saracinesca, had vanished like unsubstantial vapours be- 
fore a strong fire, and his heart and soul were ablaze. 

“Do not look at me so,” he said almost tenderly. “Do 
not look at me as though you feared me, as though you 
hated me. Can you not see that it is I who fear you as 
well as love you, who tremble at your coldness, who watch 
for your slightest kind look ? Ah, Corona, you have made 
me so happy ! — there is no angel in all heaven but would 
give up his Paradise to change for mine ! ” 

He had taken her hand and pressed it wildly to his lips. 
Her eyelids drooped, and her head fell back for one mo- 
ment. They stood so very near that his arm had almost 
stolen about her slender waist, he almost thought he was 
supporting her. 

Suddenly, without the least warning, she drew herself 
up to her full height, and thrust Giovanni back to her 
arm’s length, strongly, almost roughly. 

“ Never ! ” she said. “ I am a weak.woman, but not so 
weak as that. I am miserable, but not so miserable as to 
listen to you. Giovanni Saracinesca, you say you love me 
— God grant it is not true ! but you say it. Then, have 
you no honour, no courage, no strength ? Is there noth- 
ing of the man left in you ? Is there no truth in your love, 
no generosity in your heart ? If you so love me as you 
say you do, do you care so little what becomes of me as 
to tempt me to love you ? ” 

She spoke very earnestly, not scornfully nor angrily, but 
in the certainty of strength and right, and in the strong 
persuasion that the headstrong man would hear and be 
convinced. She was weak no longer, for one desperate 
moment her fate had trembled in the balance, but she had 


SARACINESCA. 


141 


not hesitated even then ; she had struggled bravely, and 
her brave soul had won the great battle. She had been 
weak the other day at the theatre, in letting herself ask 
the question to which she knew the answer ; she had been 
miserably weak that very night in so abandoning herself 
to the influence she loved and dreaded ; but at the great 
moment, when heaven and earth swam before her as in a 
wild and unreal mirage, with the voice of the man she 
loved ringing in her ears, speaking such words as it was 
an ecstasy to hear, she had been no longer weak — the 
reality of danger had brought forth the sincerity of her 
goodness, and her heart had found courage to do a great 
deed. She had overcome, and she knew it. 

Giovanni stood back from her, and hung his head. In 
a moment the force of his passion was checked, and from 
the supreme verge of unspeakable and rapturous delight, 
he was cast suddenly into the depths of his own remorse. 
He stood silent before her, trembling and awestruck. 

“ You cannot understand me,” she said, “I do not un- 
derstand myself. But this I know, that you are not what 
you have seemed to-night — that there is enough manliness 
and nobility in you to respect a woman, and that you will 
hereafter prove that I am right. I pray that I may not 
see you any more ; but if I must see you, I will trust you 
thus much — say that I may trust you,” she added, her 
strong smooth voice sinking in a trembling cadence, half 
beseeching, and yet wholly commanding. 

Saracinesca bent his heavy brows, and was silent for a 
moment. Then he looked up, and his eyes met hers, and 
seemed to gather strength from her. 

“ If you will let me see you sometimes, you may trust 
me. I would I were as noble and good as you — I am not. 
I will try to be. Ah, Corona ! ” he cried suddenly, “ for- 
give me, forgive me ! I hardly knew what I said.” 

“ Hush ! ” said the Duchessa, gently ; “ you must not 
speak like that, nor call me Corona. Perhaps I am wrong 
to forgive you wholly, but I believe in you. I believe you 
will understand, and that you will be worthy of the trust 
I place in you.” 


142 


SARACINESCA. 


“Indeed, Duchessa, none shall say that they have 
trusted me in vain,” answered Giovanni very proudly — 
“neither man nor woman — and, least of all women, you.” 

“That is well,” said she, with a faint shadow of a 
smile. “ I would rather see you proud than reckless. 
See that you remain so — that neither by word nor deed 
you ever remind me that I have had anything to«forgive. 
It is the only way in which any intercourse between us 
can be possible after this — this dreadful night.” 

Giovanni bowed his head. He was still pale, but he 
had regained control of himself. 

“ I solemnly promise that I will not recall it to your 
memory, and I implore your forgiveness, even though 
you cannot forget.” 

“I cannot forget,” said Corona, almost under her breath. 
Giovanni’s eyes flashed for a moment. “ Shall we go back 
to the ball-room ? I will go home soon.” 

As they turned to go, a loud crash, as of broken glass, 
with the fall of some heavy body, startled them, and made 
them stand still in the middle of the walk. The noisy 
concussion was followed by a complete silence. Corona, 
whose nerves had been severely tried, trembled slightly. 

“ It is strange,” she said; “they say it always happens.” 

There was nothing to be seen. The thick web of plants 
hid the ’cause of the noise from view, whatever it might 
be. Giovanni hesitated a moment, looking about to see 
how he could get behind the banks of flower-pots. Then 
he left Corona without a word, and striding to the end 
of the walk, disappeared into the depths of the conserva- 
tory. He had noticed that there was a narrow entrance 
at the end nearest the fountain, intended probably to ad- 
mit the gardener for the purpose of watering the plants. 
Corona could hear his quick steps ; she thought she heard 
a low groan and a voice whispering, — but she might have 
been mistaken, for the place was large, and her heart was 
beating fast. 

Giovanni had not gone far in the narrow way, which 
was sufficiently lighted by the soft light of the many 


SARACINESCA. 


143 


candles concealed in various parts of the conservatory, 
when he came upon the figure of a man sitting, as he had 
apparently fallen, across the small passage. The frag- 
ments of a heavy earthenware vase lay beyond him, with 
a heap of earth and roots ; and the tall india-rubber plant 
which grew in it had fallen against the sloping glass roof 
and shattered several panes. As Giovanni came suddenly 
upon him, the man struggled to rise, and in the dim light 
Saracinesca recognised Del Fence. The truth flashed 
upon him at once. The fellow had been listening, and 
had probably heard all. Giovanni instantly resolved to 
conceal the fact from the Duchessa, to whom the knowl- 
edge that the painful scene had been overheard would be 
a bitter mortification. Giovanni could undertake to 
silence the eavesdropper. 

Quick as thought his strong brown hands gripped the 
throat of Ugo del Ferice, stifling his breath like a collar 
of iron. 

“ Dog ! ” he whispered fiercely in the wretch’s ear, “ if 
you breathe, I will kill you now ! You will find me in 
my own house in an hour. Be silent now ! ” Giovanni 
whispered, with such a terrible grip on the fellow’s 
throat that his eyeballs seemed starting from his head. 
Then he turned and went out by the way he had entered, 
leaving Del Ferice writhing with pain and gasping for 
breath. As he joined Corona, his face betrayed no emo- 
tion — he had been so pale before that he could not turn 
whiter in his anger — but his eyes gleamed fiercely at the 
thought of fight. The Duchessa stood where he had left 
her, still much agitated. 

“It is nothing,” said Giovanni, with a forced laugh, as 
he offered her his arm and led her quickly away. “ Im- 
agine. A great vase with one of Frangipani’s favourite 
plants in it had been badly propped, and had fallen right 
through the glass, outward.” 

“It is strange,” said Corona. “I was almost sure I 
heard a groan.” 

“ It was the wind. The glass was broken, and it is a 
stormy night.” 


144 


SARACINESCA. 


“ That was just the way that window fell in five years 
ago,” said Corona. “ Something always happens here. 
I think I will go home — let us find my husband.” 

No one would have guessed, from Corona’s face, that 
anything extraordinary had occurred in the half-hour she 
had spent in the conservatory. She walked calmly by 
Giovanni’s side, not a trace of excitement on her pale 
proud face, not a sign of uneasiness in the quiet glance 
of her splendid eyes. She had conquered, and she knew 
it, never to be tempted again ; she had conquered herself 
and she had overcome the man beside her. Giovanni 
glanced at her in wondering admiration. 

“You are the bravest woman in the world, as I am 
the most contemptible of men,” he said suddenly, as 
they entered the picture-gallery. 

“ I am not brave,” she answered calmly, “ neither are 
you contemptible, my friend. We have both been very 
near to our destruction, but it has pleased God to save us.” 

“ By you,” said Saracinesca, very solemnly. He knew 
that within six hours he might be lying dead upon some 
plot of wet grass without the city, and he grew very 
grave, after the manner of brave men when death is 
abroad. 

“You have saved my soul to-night,” he said earnestly. 
“Will you give me your blessing and whole forgiveness ? 
Do not laugh at me, nor think me foolish. The blessing 
of such women as you should make men braver and 
better.” 

The gallery was again deserted. The cotillon had be- 
gun, and those who were not dancing were at supper. 
Corona stood still for one moment by the very chair 
w r here they had sat so long. 

“ I forgive you wholly. I pray that all blessings may 
be upon you always, in life and in death, for ever.” 

Giovanni bowed his head reverently. It seemed as 
though the woman he,so loved was speaking a benedic- 
tion upon his death, a last in pace which should follow 
him for all eternity. 


SARACINESCA. 


145 


“In life and in death, I will honour you truly and 
serve you faithfully for ever,” he answered. As he 
raised his head, Corona saw that there were tears in his 
eyes, and she felt that there were tears in her own. 

“ Come,” she said, and they passed on in silence. 

She found her husband at last in the supper-room. He 
was leisurely discussing the wing of a chicken and a small 
glass of claret-and-water, with a gouty ambassador whose 
wife had insisted upon dancing the cotillon, and who was 
revenging himself upon a Strasbourg pdte and a bottle of 
dry champagne. 

“ Ah, my dear,” said Astrardente, looking up from his 
modest fare, “you have been dancing ? You have come 
to supper ? You are very wise. I have danced a great 
deal myself, but I have not seen you — the room was so 
crowded. Here — this small table will hold us all, just a 
quartet.” 

“Thanks — I am not hungry. Will you take me home 
when you have finished supper ? Or are you going to 
stay ? Do not wait, Don Giovanni ; I know you are busy 
in the cotillon. My husband will take care of me. Good 
night.” 

Giovanni bowed, and went away, glad to be alone at 
last. He had to be at home in half an hour according to 
his engagement, and he had to look about him for a friend. 
All Eome was at the ball ; but the men upon whom he 
could call for such service as he required, were all dancing. 
Moreover, he reflected that in such a matter it was neces- 
sary to have some one especially trustworthy. It would 
not do to have the real cause of the duel known, and the 
choice of a second was a very important matter. He never 
doubted that Del Ferice would send some one with a 
challenge at the appointed time. Del Ferice was a 
scoundrel, doubtless ; but he was quick with the foils, 
and had often appeared as second in affairs of honour. 

Giovanni stood by the door of the ball-room, looking 
at the many familiar faces, and wondering how he could 
induce any one to leave his partner at that hour, and go 

j 


146 


SARACINESCA. 


home with him. Suddenly he was aware that his father 
was standing beside him and eyeing him curiously. 

“ What is the matter, Giovannino ? ” inquired the old 
Prince. “ Why are you not dancing ? ” 

“ The fact is— — ” began Giovanni, and then stopped 
suddenly. An idea struck him. He went close to his 
father, and spoke in a low voice. 

“ The fact is, that I have just taken a man by the throat 
and otherwise insulted him, by calling him a dog. The 
fellow seemed annoyed, and so I told him he might send 
to our house in an hour for an explanation. I cannot find 
a friend, because everybody is dancing this abominable 
cotillon. Perhaps you can help me/’ he added, looking at 
his father rather doubtfully. To his surprise and consider- 
able relief the old Prince burst into a hearty laugh. 

“ Of course/’ he cried. “ What do you take me for ? 
Do you think I would desert my boy in a light ? Go and 
call my carriage, and wait for me while I pick up some- 
body for a witness ; we can talk on the way home.” 

The old Prince had been a duellist in his day, and he 
would no more have thought of advising his son not to 
light than of refusing a challenge himself. He was, more- 
over, exceedingly bored at the ball, and not in the least 
sleepy. The prospect of an exciting night was novel and 
delightful. He knew Giovanni’s extraordinary skill, and 
feared nothing for him. He knew everybody in the ball- 
room was engaged, and he went straight to the supper- 
table, expecting to find some one there. Astrardente, the 
Duchessa, and the gouty ambassador were still together, 
as Giovanni had left them a moment before. The Prince 
did not like Astrardente, but he knew the ambassador 
very well. He called him aside, with an apology to the 
Duchessa. 

“I want a young man immediately,” said old Sara- 
cinesca, stroking his white beard with his broad brown 
hand. “ Can you tell of any one who is not dancing ? ” 

“ There is Astrardente,” answered his Excellency, with 
an ironical smile. “ A duel ? ” he asked. 


SARACINESCA. 


147 


Saracinesca nodded. 

“I am too old,” said the diplomatist, thoughtfully; 
“ but it would be infinitely amusing. I cannot give you 
one of my secretaries either. It always makes such a 
scandal. Oh, there goes the very man ! Catch him 
before it is too late ! ” 

Old Saracinesca glanced in the direction the ambas- 
sador indicated, and darted away. He was as active as 
a boy, in spite of his sixty years. 

“Eh!” he cried. ^Hi! you! Come here! Spicca ! 
Stop ! Excuse me — I am in a great hurry ! ” 

Count Spicca, whom he thus addressed, paused and 
looked round through his single eyeglass in some sur- 
prise. He was an immensely tall and cadaverous-look- 
ing man, with a black beard and searching grey eyes. 

“ I really beg your pardon,” said the Prince hurriedly, 
in a low voice, as he came up, “but I am in a great 
hurry — an affair of honour — will you be witness ? My 
carriage is at the door.” 

“With pleasure,” said Count Spicca, quietly; and with- 
out further comment he accompanied the Prince to the 
outer hall. Giovanni was waiting, and the Prince’s foot- 
man stood at the head of the stairs. In three minutes 
the father and son and the melancholy Spicca were seated 
in the carriage, on their way to the Palazzo Saracinesca. 

“Now then, Giovannino,” said the Prince, as he lit a 
cigarette in the darkness, “tell us all about it.” 

“ There is not much to tell,” said Giovanni. “ If the 
challenge arrives, there is nothing to be done but to fight. 
I took him by the throat and nearly strangled him.” 

“ Whom ? ” asked Spicca, mournfully. 

“ Oh ! it is Del Ferice,” answered Giovanni, who had 
forgotten that he had not mentioned the name of his 
probable antagonist. The Prince laughed. 

“ Del Eerice ! Who would have thought it ? He is a 
dead man. What was it all about ? ” 

“That is unnecessary to say here,” said Giovanni, 
quietly. “He insulted me grossly. I half-strangled 


148 


SARACINESCA. 


him, and told him he was a dog. I suppose he will 
fight.” 

“ Ah yes ; he will probably fight,” repeated Spicca, 
thoughtfully. “ What are your weapons, Don Giovanni ? ” 

“ Anything he likes.” 

“But the choice is yours if he challenges,” returned 
the Count. 

“As you please. Arrange all that — foils, swords, or 
pistols.” 

“You do not seem to take much interest in this affair,” 
remarked Spicca, sadly. 

“ He is best with foils,” said the old Prince. 

“Foils or pistols, of course,” said the Count. “Swords 
are child’s play.” 

Satisfied that his seconds meant business, Giovanni 
sank back in his corner of the carriage, and was silent. 

“We had better have the meeting in my villa,” said 
his father. “ If it rains, they can fight indoors. I will 
send for the surgeon at once.” 

In a few moments they reached the Palazzo Saracin- 
esca. The Prince left word at the porter’s lodge that 
any gentlemen who arrived were to be admitted, and all 
three went up-stairs. It was half-past two o’clock. 

As they entered the apartments, they heard a carriage 
drive under the great archway below. 

“ Go to your rooms, Giovannino,” said the old Prince. 
“ These fellows are punctual. I will call you when they 
are gone. I suppose you mean business seriously ? ” 

“I care nothing about him. I will give him any satis- 
faction he pleases,” answered Giovanni. “ It is very 
kind of you to undertake the matter — I am very grate- 
ful.” 

“ I would not leave it to anybody else,” muttered the 
old Prince, as he hurried away to meet Del Ferice’s 
seconds. 

Giovanni entered his own rooms, and went straight to 
his writing-table. He took a pen and a sheet of paper 
and began writing. His face was very grave, but his 


SARACINESCA. 149 

hand was steady. For more than an hour he wrote with- 
out pausing. Then his father entered the room. 

“ Well ? ” said Giovanni, looking up. 

“ It is all settled,” said the old gentleman, seriously. 
“ I was afraid they might make some objection to me as a 
second. You know there is an old clause about near rela- 
tions acting in such cases. But they declared that they 
considered my co-operation an honour — so that is all right. 
You must do your best, my boy. This rascal means to 
hurt you if he can. Seven o’clock is the time. We must 
leave here at half-past six. You can sleep two hours and 
a half. I will sit up and call you. Spicca has gone home 
to change his clothes, and is coming back immediately. 
Now lie down. I will see to your foils ” 

“ Is it foils, then ? ” asked Giovanni, quietly. 

“Yes. They made no objection. You had better lie 
down.” 

“ I will. Father, if anything should happen to me — it 
may, you know — you will find my keys in this drawer, 
and this letter, which I beg you will read. It is to 
yourself.” 

“ Nonsense, my dear boy ! Nothing will happen to 
you — you will just run him through the arm and come 
home to breakfast.” 

The old Prince spoke in his rough cheerful way ; but 
his voice trembled, and he turned aside to hide two great 
tears that had fallen upon his dark cheeks and were los- 
ing themselves in his white beard. 


CHAPTER XII. 

Giovanni slept soundly for two hours. He was very 
tired with the many emotions of the night, and the 
arrangements for the meeting being completed, it seemed 
as though work were over and the pressure removed. It 


150 


SARACINESCA. 


.is said that men will sleep for hours when the trial is 
over and the sentence of death has been passed ; and 
though it was more likely that Del Ferice would be killed 
than that Giovanni would be hurt, the latter felt not 
unlike a man who has been tried for his life. He had 
suffered in a couple of hours almost every emotion of 
which he was capable — his love for Corona, long con- 
trolled and choked down, had broken bounds at last, and 
found expression for itself ; he had in a moment suf- 
fered the severest humiliation and the most sincere sor- 
row at her reproaches ; he had known the fear of seeing 
her no more, and the sweetness of pardon from her own 
lips ; he had found himself on a sudden in a frenzy of 
righteous wrath against Del Ferice, and a moment later 
he had been forced to hide his anger under a calm face ; 
and at last, when the night w r as far spent, he had received 
the assurance that in less than four hours he would have 
ample opportunity for taking vengeance upon the cow- 
ardly eavesdropper who had so foully got possession of 
the one secret he held dear. Worn out with all he had 
suffered, and calm in the expectation of the morning’s 
struggle, Giovanni lay down upon his bed and slept. 

Del Ferice, on the contrary, was very wakeful. He had 
an unpleasant sensation about his throat as though he had 
been hanged, and cut down before he was dead ; and he 
suffered the unutterable mortification of knowing that, 
after a long and successful social career, he had been de- 
tected by his worst enemy in a piece of disgraceful vil- 
lany. In the first place, Giovanni might kill him. Del 
Ferice was a very good fencer, but Saracinesca was 
stronger and more active ; there was certainly considera- 
ble danger in the duel. On the other hand, if he survived, 
Giovanni had him in his power for the rest of his life, 
and there was no escape possible. He had been caught 
listening — caught in a flagrantly dishonest trick — and he 
well knew that if the matter had been brought before a 
jury of honour, he would have been declared incompetent 
to claim any satisfaction. 


SAR ACIN ESC A. 


151 


It was not the first time Del Fence had done such 
things, but it was the first time he had been caught. He 
cursed his awkwardness in oversetting the vase just at the 
moment when his game was successfully played to the end 
— just when he thought that he began to see land, in hav- 
ing discovered beyond all doubt that Giovanni was devoted 
body and soul to Corona d’Astrardente. The information 
had been necessary to him, for he was beginning seriously 
to press his suit with Donna Tullia, and he needed to be 
sure that Giovanni was not a rival to be feared. He had 
long suspected Saracinesca’s devotion to the dark Du- 
chessa, and by constantly putting himself in his way, he 
had done his best to excite his jealousy and to stimulate 
his passion. Giovanni never could have considered Del 
Ferice as a rival ; the idea would have been ridiculous. 
But the constant annoyance of finding the man by 
Corona’s side, when he desired to be alone with her, had 
in some measure heightened the effect Del Ferice desired, 
though it had not actually produced it. Being a good 
judge of character, he had sensibly reckoned his chances 
against Giovanni, and he had formed so just an opinion 
of the man’s bold and devoted character as to be abso- 
lutely sure that if Saracinesa loved Corona he would not 
seriously think of marrying Donna Tullia. He had done 
all he could to strengthen the passion when he guessed 
it was already growing, and at the very moment when he 
had received circumstantial evidence of it which placed 
it beyond all doubt, he had allowed himself to be 
discovered, through his own unpardonable carelessness. 

Evidently the only satisfactory jvay out of the difficulty 
was to kill Giovanni outright, if he could do it. In that 
way he would rid himself of an enemy, and at the same 
time of the evidence against himself. The question was, 
how this could be accomplished ; for Giovanni was a man 
of courage, strength, and experience, and he himself — Ugo 
del Ferice — possessed none of those qualities in any great 
degree. The result was, that he slept not at all, but passed 
the night in a state of nervous anxiety by no means con- 


152 


SARACINESCA. 


ducive to steadiness of hand or calmness of the nerves. He 
was less pleased than ever when he heard that Giovanni’s 
seconds were his own father and the melancholy Spicca, 
who was the most celebrated duellist in Italy, in spite of 
his cadaverous long body, his sad voice, and his expression 
of mournful resignation to the course of events. 

In the event of his neither killing Don Giovanni nor 
being himself killed, what he most dreaded was the cer- 
tainty that for the rest of his life he must be in his enemy’s 
power. He knew that, for Corona’ $ sake, Giovanni would 
not mention the cause of the duel, and no one could have 
induced him to speak of it himself ; but it would be a 
terrible hindrance in his life to feel at every turn that the 
man he hated had the power to expose him to the world as 
a scoundrel of the first water. What he had heard gave 
him but small influence over Saracinesca, though it was of 
great value in determining his own action. To say aloud 
to the world that Giovanni loved the Duchessa d’Astrar- 
dente would be of little use. Del Ferice could not, for 
very shame, tell how he had found it out ; and there was 
no other proof but his evidence, for he guessed that from 
that time forward the open relation between the two would 
be even more formal than before — and the most credulous 
people do not believe in a great fire unless they can see a 
little smoke. He had not even the advantage of turning 
the duel to account in his interest with Donna Tullia, since 
Giovanni could force him to deny that she was implicated 
in the question, on pain of exposing his treachery. There 
was palpably no satisfactory way out of the matter unless 
he could kill his adversary. He would have to leave the 
country for a while ; but Giovanni once dead, it would be 
easy to make Donna Tullia believe they had fought on her 
account, and to derive all the advantage there was to be 
gained from posing before the world as her defender. 

But though Del Fence’s rest was disturbed by the con- 
templation of his difficulties, he did not neglect any pre- 
caution which might save his strength for the morrow. 
He lay down upon his bed, stretching himself at full 


SARAOINESCA. 


153 


length, and carefully keeping his right arm free, lest, by 
letting his weight fall upon it as he lay, he should benumb 
the muscles or stiffen the joints ; from time to time he 
rubbed a little strengthening ointment upon his wrist, and 
he was careful that the light should not shine in his eyes 
and weary them. At six o’clock his seconds appeared with 
the surgeon they had engaged, and the four men were soon 
driving rapidly down the Corso towards the gate. 

So punctual were the two parties that they arrived 
simultaneously at the gate of the villa which had been 
selected for the encounter. The old Prince took a key 
from his pocket and himself opened the great iron gate. 
The carriages drove in, and the gates were closed by the 
astonished porter, who came running out as they creaked 
upon their hinges. The light was already sufficient for 
the purpose of fencing, as the eight men descended 
simultaneously before the house. The morning was 
cloudy, but the ground was dry. The principals and 
seconds saluted each other formally. Giovanni withdrew 
to a little distance on one side with his surgeon, and Del 
Ferice stood aside with his. 

The melancholy Spicca, who looked like the shadow of 
death in the dim morning light, was the first to speak. 

“ Of course you know the best spot in the villa ? ” he 
said to the old Prince. 

“ As there is no sun, I suggest that they fight upon 
the ground behind the house. It is hard and dry.” 

The whole party followed old Saracinesca. Spicca had 
the foils in a green bag. The place suggested by the 
Prince seemed in every way adapted, and Del Fence’s 
seconds made no objection. There was absolutely no 
choice of position upon the ground, which was an open 
space about twenty yards square, hard and well rolled, 
preferable in every way to a grass lawn. 

Without further comment, Giovanni took off his coat 
and waistcoat, and Del Ferice, who looked paler and 
more unhealthy than usual, followed his example. The 
seconds crossed sides to examine the principals’ shirts, 


154 


SARACINESCA. 


and to assure themselves that they wore no flannel 
underneath the unstarched linen. This formality being 
accomplished, the foils were carefully compared, and 
Giovanni was offered the first choice. He took the one 
nearest his hand, and the other was carried to Del Ferice. 
They were simple fencing foils, the buttons being re- 
moved and the points sharpened — there was nothing to 
choose between them. The seconds then each took a 
sword, and stationed the combatants some seven or eight 
paces apart, while they themselves stood a little aside, 
each upon the right hand of his principal, and the wit- 
nesses placed themselves at opposite corners of the 
ground, the surgeons remaining at the ends behind the 
antagonists. There was a moment’s pause. When all was 
ready, old Saracinesca came close to Giovanni, while Del 
Ferice’s second approached his principal in like manner. 

“ Giovanni,” said the old Prince, gravely, “ as your 
second I am bound to recommend you to make any ad- 
vance in your power towards a friendly understanding. 
Can you do so ? ” 

“No, father, I cannot,” answered Giovanni, with a 
slight smile. His face was perfectly calm, and of a 
natural colour. Old Saracinesca crossed the ground, and 
met Casal verde, the opposite second, half-way. Each 
formally expressed to the other his great regret that no 
arrangement would be possible, and then retired again to 
the right hand of his principal. 

“ Gentlemen,” said the Prince, in a loud voice, “ are 
you ready ? ” As both men bowed their assent, he added 
immediately, in a sharp tone of command, “In guard ! ” 

Giovanni and Del Ferice each made a step forward, 
saluted each other with their foils, repeated the salute to 
the seconds and witnesses, and then came face to face 
and fell into position. Each made one thrust in tierce 
at the other, in the usual fashion of compliment, each 
parrying in the same way. 

“Halt!” cried Saracinesca and Casal verde, in the 
same breath. 


SARACINESCA. 155 

“ In guard ! ” shouted the Prince again, and the duel 
commenced. 

In a moment the difference between the two men was 
apparent. Del Ferice fenced in the Neapolitan style — 
his arm straight before him, never bending from the 
elbow, making all his play with his wrist, his back 
straight, and his knees so much bent that he seemed not 
more than half his height. He made his movements 
short and quick, and relatively few, in evident fear of 
tiring himself at the start. To a casual observer his 
fence was less graceful than his antagonist’s, his lunges 
less daring, his parries less brilliant. But as the old 
Prince watched him he saw that the point of his foil 
advanced and retreated in a perfectly straight line, and 
in parrying described the smallest circle possible, while 
his cold watery blue eye was fixed steadily upon his 
antagonist ; old Saracinesca ground his teeth, for he saw 
that the man was a most accomplished swordsman. 

Giovanni fought with the air of one who defended him- 
self, without much thought of attack. He did not bend so 
low as Del Ferice, his arm doubled a little before his 
lunge, and his foil occasionally made a wide circle in the 
air. He sfeemed careless, but in strength and elasticity 
he was far superior to his enemy, and could perhaps af- 
ford to trust to these advantages, when a man like Del 
Ferice was obliged to employ his whole skill and science. 

They had been fencing for more than two minutes, 
without any apparent result, when Giovanni seemed sud- 
denly to change his tactics. He lowered the point of his 
weapon a little, and, keeping it straight before him, began 
to press more closely upon his antagonist. Del Ferice 
kept his arm at full length, and broke ground for a yard 
or two, making clever feints in carte at Giovanni’s body, 
with the object of stopping his advance. But Giovanni 
pressed him, and suddenly made a peculiar movement 
with his foil, bringing it in contact with his enemy’s 
along its length. 

“ Halt ! ” cried Casalverde. Both men lowered their 


156 


SAEACINESCA. 


weapons instantly, and the seconds sprang forward and 
touched their swords between them. Giovanni bit his 
lip angrily. 

“ Why ‘ halt ’ ? ” asked the Prince, sharply. “ Neither 
is touched.’ 7 

“ My principal’s shoe-string is untied,” answered Casal- 
verde, calmly. It was true. “He might easily trip and 
fall,” explained Del Ferice’s friend, bending down and 
proceeding to tie the silk ribbon. The Prince shrugged 
his shoulders, and retired with Giovanni a few steps back. 

“ Giovanni,” he said, in a voice trembling with emotion, 
“ if you are not more careful, he will do you a mischief. 
For heaven’s sake run him through the arm and let us 
be done with it.” 

“ I should have disarmed him that time if his second 
had not stopped us,” said Giovanni, calmly. “He is 
ready again,” he added, “ come on.” 

“ In guard ! ” 

Again the two men advanced, and again the foils 
crossed and recrossed and rang loudly in the cold morning 
air. Once more Giovanni pressed upon Del Ferice, and Del 
Ferice broke ground. In answer to a quick feint, Giovanni 
made a round parry and a sharp short lunge in tierce. 

“ Halt ! ” yelled Casalverde. Old Saracinesca sprang in, 
and Giovanni lowered his weapon. But Casalverde did 
not interpose his sword. A full two seconds after the 
cry to halt, Del Ferice lunged right forward. Giovanni 
thrust out his arm to save his body from the foul attempt 
— he had not time to raise his weapon. Del Ferice’s 
sharp rapier entered his wrist and tore a long wound 
nearly to the elbow. 

Giovanni said nothing, but his sword dropped from his 
hand and he turned upon his father, white with rage. 
The blood streamed down his sleeve, and his surgeon 
came running towards him. 

The old man had understood at a glance the foul play 
that had been practised, and going forward laid his hand 
upon the arm of Del Ferice’s second. 


SARACINESCA. 


157 


“ Why did you stop them, sir ? And where was your 
sword ? ” he said in great anger. Del Ferice was leaning 
upon his friend; a greenish pallor had overspread his 
face, but there was a smile under his colourless moustache. 

“ My principal was touched,” said Casalverde, pointing 
to a tiny scratch upon Del Fence’s neck, from which a 
single drop of blood was slowly oozing. 

“Then why did you not prevent your principal from 
thrusting after you cried the halt ? ” asked Saracinesca, 
severely. “You have singularly misunderstood your 
duties, sir, and when these gentlemen are satisfied, you 
will be answerable to me.” 

Casalverde was silent. 

“I protest myself wholly satisfied,” said Ugo, with a 
disagreeable smile, as he glanced to where the surgeon 
was binding up Giovanni’s arm. 

“ Sir, ” said old Saracinesca, fiercely addressing the sec- 
ond, “ I am not here to bandy words with your principal. 
He may express himself satisfied through you, if he 
pleases. My principal, through me, expresses his entire 
dissatisfaction.” 

“Your principal, Prince,” answered Casalverde, coldly, 
“ is unable to proceed, seeing that his right arm is injured.” 

“My son, sir, fences as readily with his left hand as 
with his right,” returned old Saracinesca. 

Del Fence’s face fell, and his smile vanished instantly. 

“ In that case we are ready,” returned Casalverde, un- 
able, however, to conceal his annoyance. He was a friend 
of Del Fence’s and would gladly have seen Giovanni run 
through the body by the foul thrust. 

There was a moment’s consultation on the other side. 

“ I will give myself the pleasure of killing that gentle- 
man to-morrow morning,” remarked Spicca, as he mourn- 
fully watched the surgeon’s operations. 

“ Unless I kill him myself to-day,” returned the Prince 
savagely, in his white beard. “ Are you ready, Giovan- 
nino ? ” It never occurred to him to ask his son if he 
was too badly hurt to proceed. 


158 


SARACINESCA. 


Giovanni never spoke, but the hot blood had mounted 
to his temples, and he was dangerously angry. He took 
the foil they gave him, and felt the point quietly. It 
was sharp as a needle. He nodded to his father’s ques- 
tion, and they resumed their places, the old Prince this 
time standing on the left, as his son had changed hands. 
Del Ferice came forward rather timidly. His courage 
had sustained him so far, but the consciousness of hav- 
ing done a foul deed, and the sight of the angry man be- 
fore him, were beginning to make him nervous. He felt 
uncomfortable, too, at the idea of fencing against a left- 
handed antagonist. 

Giovanni made one or two lunges, and then, with a 
strange movement unlike anything any one present was 
acquainted with, seemed to wind his blade round Del 
Fence’s, and, with a violent jerk of the wrist, sent the 
weapon flying across the open space. It struck a window 
of the house, and crashed through the panes. 

“ More broken glass ! ” said Giovanni scornfully, as he 
lowered his point and stepped back two paces. “ Take 
another sword, sir,” he said; “I will not kill you de- 
fenceless.” 

“ Good heavens, Giovannino ! ” exclaimed his father in 
the greatest excitement ; “ where on earth did you learn 
that trick ? ” 

“On my travels, father,” returned Giovanni, with a 
smile ; “ where you tell me I learned so much that was 
bad. He looks frightened,” he added in a low voice, as 
he glanced at Del Fence’s livid face. 

“ He has cause,” returned the Prince, “ if he ever had 
in his life ! ” 

Casalverde and his witness advanced from the other 
side with a fresh pair of foils ; for the one that had gone 
through the window could not be recovered at once, and 
was probably badly bent by the twist it had received. 
The gentlemen offered Giovanni his choice. 

“ If there is no objection I will keep the one I have,” 
said he to his father. The foils were measured, and 


SARACINESCA. 159 

were found to be alike. The two gentlemen retired, and 
Del Ferice chose a weapon. 

“ That is right,” said Spicca, as he slowly went back to 
his place. “ You should never part with an old friend.” 

“ We are ready ! ” was called from the opposite side. 

“ In guard, then ! ” cried the Prince. The angry flush 
had not subsided from Giovanni's forehead, as he again 
went forward. Del Ferice came up like a man who has 
suddenly made up his mind to meet death, with a look of 
extraordinary determination on his pale face. 

Before they had made half-a-dozen passes Ugo slipped, 
or pretended to slip, and fell upon his right knee ; but as 
he came to the ground, he made a sharp thrust upwards 
under Giovanni’s extended left arm. 

The old Prince uttered a fearful oath, that rang and 
echoed along the walls of the ancient villa. Del Ferice 
had executed the celebrated feint known long ago as the 
“ Colpo del Tancredi,” “ Tancred’s lunge,” from the sup- 
posed name of its inventor. It is now no longer per- 
mitted in duelling. But the deadly thrust loses half its 
danger against a left-handed man. The foil grazed the 
flesh on Giovanni’s left side, and the blood again stained 
his white shirt. In the moment when Del Ferice slipped, 
Giovanni had made a straight and deadly lunge at his 
body, and the sword, instead of passing through Ugo’s 
lungs, ran swift and sure through his throat, with such 
force that the iron guard struck the falling man’s jaw 
with tremendous impetus, before the oath the old Prince 
had uttered was fairly out of his mouth. 

Seconds and witnesses and surgeons sprang forward 
hastily. Del Ferice lay upon his side ; he had fallen so 
heavily and suddenly as to wrench the sword from Gio- 
vanni’s grip. The old Prince gave one look, and dragged 
his son away. 

“ He is as dead as a stone,” he muttered, with a savage 
gleam in his eyes. 

Giovanni hastily began to dress, without paying any 
attention to the fresh wound he had received in the last 


160 


SARACINESCA. 


encounter. In the general excitement, his surgeon had 
joined the group about the fallen man. Before Giovanni 
had got his overcoat on he came back with Spicca, who 
looked crestfallen and disappointed. 

“ He is not dead at all,” said the surgeon. “ You did 
the thing with a master’s hand — you ran his throat through 
without touching the jugular artery or the spine.” 

“ Does he want to go on ? ” asked Giovanni, so savagely 
that the three men stared at him. 

“ Do not be so bloodthirsty, Giovannino,” said the old 
Prince, reproachfully. 

“ I should be justified in going back and killing him as 
he lies there,” said the younger Saracinesca, fiercely. 
“ He nearly murdered me twice this morning.” 

“ That is true,” said the Prince, “ the dastardly brute ! ” 

“ By the bye,” said Spicca, lighting a cigarette, “ I am 
afraid I have deprived you of the pleasure of dealing 
with the man who called himself Del Ferice’s second. 
I just took the opportunity of having a moment’s private 
conversation with him — we disagreed a little.” 

“ Oh, very well,” growled the Prince ; “ as you please. 
I daresay I shall have enough to do in taking care of Gio- 
vanni to-morrow. That is a villanous bad scratch on his 
arm.” 

“ Bah ! it is nothing to mention, save for the foul way 
it was given,” said Giovanni between his teeth. 

Once more old Saracinesca and Spicca crossed the 
ground. There was a word of formality exchanged, to 
the effect that both combatants were satisfied, and then 
Giovanni and his party moved off, Spicca carrying his 
green bag of foils under his arm, and puffing clouds of 
smoke into the damp morning air. They had been nearly 
an hour on the ground, and were chilled with cold, and 
exhausted for want of sleep. They entered their car- 
riage and drove rapidly homewards. 

“ Come in and breakfast with us,” said the old Prince 
to Spicca, as they reached the Palazzo Saracinesca. 

“ Thank you, no,” answered the melancholy man. “ I 


SARACINESCA 


161 


have much to do, as I shall go to Paris to-morrow morn- 
ing by the ten o’clock train. Can I do anything for you 
there ? I shall be absent some months.” 

“I thought you were going to fight to-morrow/’ 
objected the Prince. 

“ Exactly. It will be convenient for me to leave the 
country immediately afterwards.” 

The old man shuddered. With all his fierce blood and 
headstrong passion, he could not comprehend the fearful 
calm of this strange man, whose skill was such that he 
regarded his adversary’s death as a matter of course 
whenever he so pleased. As for Giovanni, he was still so 
angry that he cared little for the issue of the second duel. 

“ I am sincerely grateful for your kind offices,” he said, 
as Spicca took leave of him. 

“ You shall be amply revenged of the two attempts to 
murder you,” said Spicca, quietly ; and so, having shaken 
hands with all, he again entered the carriage. It was the 
last they saw of him for a long time. He faithfully ful- 
filled his programme. He met Casal verde on the follow- 
ing morning at seven o’clock, and at precisely a quarter 
past, he left him dead on the field. He breakfasted with 
his seconds at half-past eight, and left Pome with them 
for Paris at ten o’clock. He had selected two French 
officers who were about to return to their home, in order 
not to inconvenience any of his friends by obliging them 
to leave the country ; which showed that, even in mo- 
ments of great excitement, Count Spicca was thoughtful 
of others. 

When the surgeon had dressed Giovanni’s wounds, he 
left the father and son together. Giovanni lay upon a 
couch in his own sitting-room, eating his breakfast as 
best he could with one hand. The old Prince paced the 
floor, commenting from time to time upon the events of 
the morning. 

“ It is just as well that you did not kill him, Giovan- 
nino,” he remarked ; “ it would have been a nuisance to 
have been obliged to go away just now.” 

K 


162 


SARACINESC A. 


Giovanni did not answer. 

“ Of course, duelling is a great sin, and is strictly for- 
bidden by our religion/’ said the Prince suddenly. “ But 
then ” 

“ Precisely/’ returned Giovanni. “We nevertheless 
cannot always help ourselves.”* 

“ I was going to say,” continued his father, “ that it is, 
of course, very wicked, and if one is killed in a duel, one 
probably goes straight into hell. But then — it was worth 
something to see how you sent that fellow’s foil flying 
through the window ! ” 

“It is a very simple trick. If you will take a foil, I 
will teach it to you.” 

“Presently, presently; when you have finished your 
breakfast. Tell me, why did you say, ‘more broken 
glass ’ ? ” 

Giovanni bit his lip, remembering his imprudence. 

“ I hardly know. I believe it suggested something to 
my mind. One says all sorts of foolish things in mo- 
ments of excitement.” 

“It struck me as a very odd remark,” answered the 
Prince, still walking about. “By the bye,” he added, 
pausing before the writing-table, “ here is that letter you 
wrote for me. Bo you want me to read it ? ” 

“No,” said Giovanni, with a laugh. “It is of no use 
now. It would seem absurd, since I am alive and well. 
It was only a word of farewell.” 

The Prince laughed too, and threw the sealed letter 
into the fire. 

“ The last of the Saracinesca is not dead yet,” he said. 
“ Giovanni, what are we to say to the gossips ? All Borne 
will be ringing with this affair before night. Of course, you 
must stay at home for a few days, or you will catch cold in 
your arm. I will go out and carry the news of our victory.” 

“ Better to say nothing about it — better to refer people 
to Bel Ferice, and tell them he challenged me. Come 
in ! ” cried Giovanni, in answer to a knock at the door. 
Pasquale, the old butler, entered the room. 


SARACINESCA. 


163 


“ The Duca d’ Astrardente has sent to inquire after the 
health of his Excellency Don Giovanni/’ said the old 
man, respectfully. 

The elder Saracinesca paused in his walk, and broke 
out into a loud laugh. 

“ Already ! You see, Giovannino,” he said. “ Tell him, 
Pasquale, that Don Giovanni caught a severe cold at the 
ball last night — or no — wait ! What shall we say, Gio- 
vannino ? ” 

“Tell the servant,” said Giovanni, sternly, “that I 
am much obliged for the kind inquiry, that I am perfectly 
well, and that you have just seen me eating my breakfast.” 

Pasquale bowed and left the room. 

“I suppose you do not want her to know ” said 

the Prince, who had suddenly recovered his gravity. 

Giovanni bowed his head silently. 

“Quite right, my boy,” said the old man, gravely. “I 
do not want to know anything about it either. How the 
devil could they have found out ? ” 

The question was addressed more to himself than to his 
son, and the latter volunteered no answer. He was grate- 
ful to his father for his considerate silence. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

When Astrardente saw the elder Saracinesca’s face 
during his short interview with the diplomatist, his curi- 
osity was immediately aroused. He perceived that there 
was something the matter, and he proceeded to try and 
ascertain the circumstances from his acquaintance. The 
ambassador returned to his pdt4 and his champagne with 
an air of amused interest, but vouchsafed no information 
whatever. 

“ What a singularly amusing fellow old Saracinesca is ! ” 
remarked Astrardente. 


164 


SARACINESCA. 


“ When he likes to be/’ returned his Excellency, with 
his mouth full. 

“ On the contrary — when he least meditates it. I never 
knew a man better suited for a successful caricature. 
Indeed he is not a bad caricature of his own son, or his 
own son Of him — I am not sure which.” 

The ambassador laughed a little and took a large 
mouthful. 

“ Ha ! ha ! very good,” he mumbled as he ate. “ He 
would appreciate that. He loves his own race. He 
would rather feel that he is a comic misrepresentation of 
the most hideous Saracinesca who ever lived, than possess 
all the beauty of the Astrardente and be called by another 
name.” 

The diplomatist paused for a second after this speech, 
and then bowed a little to the Duchessa ; but the hit had 
touched her husband in a sensitive spot. The old dandy 
had been handsome once, in a certain way, and he did 
his best, by artificial means, to preserve some trace of his 
good looks. The Duchessa smiled faintly. 

“ I would wager,” said Astrardente, sourly, “ that his 
excited manner just now was due to one of two things — 
either his vanity or his money is in danger. As for the 
way he yelled after Spicca, it looked as though there were 
a duel in the air — fancy the old fellow fighting a duel ! 
Too ridiculous ! ” 

“ A duel ! ” repeated Corona in a low voice. 

“ I do not see anything so very ridiculous in it,” said 
the diplomatist, slowly twisting his glass of champagne 
in his fingers, and then sipping it. “Besides,” he added 
deliberately, glancing at the Duchessa from the corner of 
his eyes, “ he has a son.” 

Corona started very slightly. 

“ Why should there be a duel ? ” she asked. 

“It was your husband who suggested the idea,” returned 
the diplomatist. 

“ But you said there was nothing ridiculous in it,” ob- 
jected the Duchessa. 


SAKACINESCA. 


165 


“ But I did not say there was any truth in it, either,’ 7 
answered his Excellency with a reassuring smile. “ What 
made you think of duelling ? ” he asked, turning to Astrar- 
dente. 

“ Spicca,” said the latter. “ Wherever Spicca is con- 
cerned there is a duel. He is a terrible fellow, with his 
death’s-head and dangling bones — one of those extraor- 
dinary phenomena — bah ! it makes one shiver to think of 
him ! ” The old fellow made the sign of the horns with 
his forefinger and little finger, hiding his thumb in the 
palm of his hand, as though to protect himself against 
the evil eye — the sinister influence invoked by the men- 
tion of Spicca. Old Astrardente was very superstitious. 
The ambassador laughed, and even Corona smiled a little. 

“Yes,” said the diplomatist, “Spicca is a living me- 
mento mori ; he occasionally reminds men of death by 
killing them.” 

“ How horrible ! ” exclaimed Corona. 

“ Ah, my dear lady, the world is full of horrible things.” 

“ That is not a reason for making jests of them.” 

“It is better to make light of the inevitable,” said 
Astrardente. “ Are you ready to go home, my dear ? ” 

“Quite — I was only waiting for you,” answered Corona, 
who longed to be at home and alone. 

“ Let me know the result of old Saracinesca’s warlike 
undertakings,” said Astrardente, with a cunning smile 
on his painted face. “ Of course, as he consulted you, he 
will send you word in the morning.” 

“ You seem so anxious that there should be a duel, that 
I should almost be tempted to invent an account of one, 
lest you should be too grievously disappointed,” returned 
the diplomatist. 

“ You know very well that no invention will be neces- 
sary,” said the Duca, pressing him, for his curiosity was 
roused. 

“ Well — as you please to consider it. Good night,” 
replied the ambassador. It had amused him to annoy 
Astrardente a little, and he left him with the pleasant 


166 


SARACINESCA. 


consciousness of having excited the inquisitive faculty of 
his friend to its highest pitch, without giving it anything 
to feed upon. 

Men who have to do with men, rather than with things, 
frequently take a profound and seemingly cruel delight 
in playing upon the feelings and petty vanities of their 
fellow-creatures. The habit is as strong with them as 
the constant practice of conjuring becomes with a jug- 
gler ; even when he is not performing, he will for hours 
pass coins, perform little tricks of sleight-of-hand with 
car,ds, or toss balls in the air in marvellously rapid suc- 
cession, unable to lay aside his profession even for a day, 
because it has grown to be the only natural expression of 
his faculties. With men whose business it is to under- 
stand other men, it is the same. They cannot be in a 
man’s company for a quarter of an hour without attempt- 
ing to discover the peculiar weaknesses of his character 
— his vanities, his tastes, his vices, his curiosity, his love 
of money or of reputation ; so that the operation of such 
men’s minds may be compared to the process of auscul- 
tation — for their ears are always upon their neighbours’ 
hearts — and their conversation to the percutations of a 
physician to ascertain the seat of disease in a pair of 
consumptive lungs. 

But, with all his failings, Astrardente was a man of 
considerable acuteness of moral vision. He had made a 
shrewd guess at Saracinesca’s business, and had further 
gathered from a remark dropped by his diplomatic friend, 
that if there was to be a duel at all, it would be fought 
by Giovanni. As a matter of fact, the ambassador him- 
self knew nothing certainly concerning the matter, or it 
is possible that, for the sake of observing the effect of 
the news upon the Duchessa, he would have told the whole 
truth ; for he had of course heard the current gossip con- 
cerning Giovanni’s passion for her, and the experiment 
would have been too attractive and interesting to be 
missed. As it w r as, she had started at the mention of 
Saracinesca’s son. The diplomatist only did what every 


SARACINESCA. 


167 


one else who came near Corona attempted to do at that 
time, in endeavouring to ascertain whether she herself 
entertained any feeling for the man whom the gossips 
had set down as her most devoted admirer. 

Poor Duchessa! It was no wonder that she had 
started at the idea that Giovanni was in trouble. He had 
played a great part in her life that day, and she could 
not forget him. She had hardly as yet had time to think 
of what she felt, for it was only by a supreme effort that 
she had been able to bear the great- strain upon her 
strength. If she had not loved him, it would have been 
different ; and in the strange medley of emotions through 
which she was passing, she wished that she might never 
have loved — that, loving, she might be allowed wholly 
to forget her love, and to return by some sudden miracle 
to that cold dreamy state of indifference to all other men, 
and of unfailing thoughtfulness for her husband, from 
which she had been so cruelly awakened. She would 
have given anything to have not loved, now that the 
great struggle was over ; but until the supreme moment 
had come, she had not been willing to put the dangerous 
thought from her, saving in those hours of prayer and 
solitary suffering, when the whole truth rose up clearly 
before her in its undisguised nakedness. So soon as she 
had gone into the world, she had recklessly longed for 
Giovanni Saracinesca’s presence. 

But now it was all changed. She had not deceived 
herself when she had told. him that she would rather not 
see him any more. It was true ; not only did she wish 
not to see him, but she earnestly desired that the love of 
him might pass from her heart. With a sudden longing, 
her thoughts went back to the old convent-life of her 
girlhood, with its regular occupations, its constant re- 
ligious exercises, its narrowness of view, and its unchang- 
ing simplicity. What mattered narrowness, when all 
beyond that close limitation was filled with evil ? Was 
it not better that the lips should be busy with singing 
litanies than that the heart should be tormented by 


168 


SARACINESCA. 


temptation ? Were not those simple tasks, that had 
seemed so all-important then, more sweet in the perform- 
ance than the manifold duties of this complicated social 
existence, this vast web and woof of life’s loom, this 
great machinery that worked and groaned and rolled end- 
lessly upon its wheels without producing any more result 
than the ceaseless turning of a prison treadmill ? But 
there was no way out of life now ; there was no escape, 
as there was also no prospect of relief, from care and 
anxiety. There was no reason why Giovanni should go 
away — no reason either why Corona should ever love 
him less. She belonged to a class of women, if there are 
enough of them to be called a class, who, where love is 
concerned, can feel but one impression, which becomes in 
their hearts the distinctive seal and mark of their lives, 
for good or for evil. Corona was indeed so loyal and 
good a woman, that the strong pressure of her love could 
not abase her nobility, nor put untruth where all was so 
true ; but the sign of her love for Giovanni was upon 
her for ever. The vacant place in her heart had been 
filled, and filled wholly ; the bulwark she had reared 
against the love of man was broken down and swept 
away, and the waters flowed softly over its place and 
remembered it not. She would never be the same woman 
again, and it was bitter to her to feel it : for ever the 
face of Giovanni would haunt her waking hours and 
visit her dreams unbidden, — a perpetual reproach to her, 
a perpetual memory of the most desperate struggle of 
her life, and more than a memory — the undying present 
of an unchanging love. 

She was quite sure of herself in future, as she also 
trusted sincerely in Giovanni’s promise. There should be 
no moment of weakness, no word should ever fall from her 
lips to tempt him to a fresh outbreak of passionate words 
and acts ; her life should be measured in the future by the 
account of the dangers past, and there should be no instant 
of unguarded conduct, no hour wherein even to herself 
she would say it was sweet to love and to be loved. It 


SARACINESCA. 


169 


was indeed not sweet, but bitter as death itself, to feel 
that weight at her heart, that constant toiling effort in 
her mind to keep down the passion in her breast. But 
Corona had sacrificed much ; she would sacrifice this also ; 
she would get strength by her prayers and courage from 
her high pride, and she would smile to all the world as 
she had never smiled before. She could trust herself, for 
she was doing the right and trampling upon the wrong. 
But the suffering would be none the less for all her pride; 
there was no concealing it — it would be horrible. To 
meet him daily in the world, to speak to him and to hear 
his voice, perhaps to touch his hand, and all the while to 
smile coldly, and to be still and for ever above suspicion, 
while her own burning consciousness accused her of the 
past, and seemed to make the dangers of mere living yawn 
beside her path at every step, — all this would be terrible 
to bear, but by God’s help she would bear it to the end. 

But now a new horror seized her, and terrified her 
beyond measure. This rumour of a duel — a mere word 
dropped carelessly in conversation by a thoughtless ac- 
quaintance — called up to her sudden visions of evil to 
come. Surely, howsoever she might struggle against love 
and beat it roughly to silence in her breast, it was not 
wrong to fear danger for Giovanni, — it could not be a sin 
to dread the issue of peril when it was all so very near to 
her. It might perhaps not be true, for people in the world 
are willing to amuse their empty minds with empty tales, 
acknowledging the emptiness. It could not be true; she 
had seen Giovanni but a moment before — he would have 
given some hint, some sign. 

Why — after all ? Was it not the boast of such men 
that they could face the world and wear an indifferent 
look, at times of the greatest anxiety and danger ? But, 
again, if Giovanni had been involved in a quarrel so 
serious as to require the arbitrament of blood, some 
rumour of it would have reached her. She had talked 
with many men that night, and with some women — 
gossips all, whose tongues wagged merrily over the troubles 


170 


SARACINESCA. 


of friend or foe, and who would have battened upon any- 
thing so novel as a society duel, as a herd of jackals upon 
the dead body of one of their fellows, to make their feast 
off it with a light heart. Some one of all these would 
have told her; the quarrel would have been common 
property in half an hour, for somebody must have wit- 
nessed it. 

It was a consolation to Corona to reflect upon the 
extreme improbability of the story ; for when the diplo- 
matist was gone, her husband dwelt upon it — whether 
because he could not conceal his unsatisfied curiosity, or 
from other motives, it was hard to tell. 

Astrardente led his wife from the supper-table through 
the great rooms, now almost deserted, and past the wide 
doors of the hall where the cotillon was at its height. 
They paused a moment and looked in, as Giovanni had 
done a quarter of an hour earlier. It was a magnificent 
scene; the lights flashed back from the jewels of fair 
women, and surged in the dance as starlight upon rippling 
waves. The air was heavy with the odour of the countless 
flowers that filled the deep recesses of the windows, and 
were distributed in hundreds of nosegays for the figures 
of the cotillon ; enchanting strains of waltz music seemed 
to float down from above and inspire the crowd of men and 
women with harmonious motion, so that sound was made 
visible by translation into graceful movement. As Corona 
looked there was a pause, and the crowd parted, while a 
huge tiger, the heraldic beast of the Frangipani family, 
was drawn into the hall by the young prince and Bianca 
Valdarno. The magnificent skin had been so artfully 
stuffed as to convey a startling impression of life, and in 
the creature’s huge jaws hung a great basket filled with 
tiny tigers, which were to be distributed ap badges for the 
dance by the leaders. A wild burst of applause greeted 
this novel figure, and every one ran forward to obtain a 
nearer view. 

“ Ah ! ” exclaimed old Astrardente, “ I envy them that 
invention, my dear ; it is perfectly magnificent. You must 


SARACINESCA. 


171 


have a tiger to take home. How fortunate we were to be 
in time ! ” He forced his way into the crowd, leaving his 
wife alone for a moment by the door ; and he managed to 
catch Valdarno, who was distributing the little emblems to 
right and left. Madame Mayer’s quick eyes had caught 
sight of Corona and her husband, and from some instinct 
of curiosity she made towards the Duchessa. She was 
still angry, as she had never been in her short life, at 
Giovanni’s rudeness in forgetting her dance, and she longed 
to inflict some wound upon the beautiful woman who had 
led him into such forgetfulness. When Astrardente left 
his wife’s side, Donna Tullia pressed forward with her 
partner in the general confusion that followed upon the 
entrance of the tiger, and she managed to pass close to 
Corona. She looked up suddenly with an air of surprise. 

“What! not dancing, Duchessa?” she asked. “Has 
your partner gone home ? ” 

With the look that accompanied the question, it was 
an insulting speech enough. Had Donna Tullia seen old 
Astrardente close behind her, she would not have made it. 
The old dandy was returning in triumph in possession of 
the little tiger-badge for Corona. He heard the words, 
and observed with inward pleasure his wife’s calm look of 
indifference. 

“Madam,” he said, placing himself suddenly in Madame 
Mayer’s way, “ my wife’s partners do not go home while 
she remains.” 

“ Oh, I see,” returned Donna Tullia, flushing quickly ; 
“the Duchessa is dancing the cotillon with you. I beg 
your pardon — I had forgotten that you still danced.” 

“ Indeed it is long since I did myself the honour of 
asking you for a quadrille, madam,” answered Astrardente 
with a polite smile ; and so saying, he turned and pre- 
sented the little tiger to his wife with a courtly bow. 
There was good blood in the old rou6. 

Corona was touched by his thoughtfulness in wishing 
to get her the little keepsake of the dance, and she was 
still more affected by his ready defence of her. He was 


172 


SARACINESCA. 


indeed sometimes a little ridiculous, witli his paint and 
his artificial smile — he was often petulant and unreason- 
able in little things ; but he was never unkind to her, nor 
discourteous. In spite of her cold and indifferent stare 
at Donna Tullia, she had keenly felt the insult, and she 
was grateful to the old man for taking her part. Know- 
ing what she knew of herself that night, she was deeply 
sensible to his kindness. She took the little gift, and 
laid her hand upon his arm. 

“ Forgive me,” she said, as they moved away, “ if I am 
ever ungrateful to you. You are so very good to me. I 
know no one so courteous and kind as you are.” 

Her husband looked at her in delight. He loved her 
sincerely with all that remained of him. There was some- 
thing sad in the thought of a man like him finding the 
only real passion of his life when worn out with age and 
dissipation. Her little speech raised him to the seventh 
heaven of joy. 

“ I am the happiest man in all Koine,” he said, assum- 
ing his most jaunty walk, and swinging his hat gaily 
between his thumb and finger. But a current of deep 
thought was stirring in him as he went down the broad 
staircase by his wife’s side. He was thinking what life 
might have been to him had he found Corona del Carmine 
— how could he ? she was not born then — had he found 
her, or her counterpart, thirty years ago. He was won- 
dering what conceivable sacrifice there could be which he 
would not make to regain his. youth — even to have his 
life lived out and behind him, if he could only have looked 
back to thirty years of marriage with Corona. How dif- 
ferently he would have lived, how very differently he 
would have thought ! how his whole memory would be 
full of the sweet past, and would be common with her 
own past life, which, to her too, would be sweet to ponder 
on ! He would have been such a good man — so true to her 
in all those years ! But they were gone, and he had not 
found her until his foot was on the edge of the grave — 
until he could hardly count on one year more of a pitiful 


SARACINESCA. 


173 


artificial life, painted, bewigged, stuffed to the semblance 
of a man by a clever tailor — and she in the bloom of her 
glory beside him ! What he would have given to have 
old Saracinesca’s strength and fresh vitality — old Sara- 
cinesca whom he hated ! Yes, with all that hair — it was 
white, but a little dye would change it. What was a 
little dye compared with the profound artificiality of 
his own outer man ? How the old fellow’s deep voice 
rang, loud and clear, from his broad chest ! How strong 
he was, with his firm step, and his broad brown hands, 
and his fiery black eyes ! He hated him for the green- 
ness of his age — he hated him for his stalwart son, an- 
other of those long-lived fierce Saracinesca, who seemed 
destined to outlive time. He himself had no children, no 
relations, no one to bear his name — he had only a beau- 
tiful yoiyig wife and much wealth, with just enough 
strength left to affect a gay walk when he was with her, 
and to totter unsteadily to his couch when he was alone, 
worn out with the effort of trying to seem young. 

As they sat in their carriage he thought bitterly of all 
these things, and never spoke. Corona herself was weary, 
and glad to be silent. They went up-stairs, and as she 
took his arm, she gently tried to help him rather than be 
helped. He noticed it, and made an effort, but he was 
very tired. He paused upon the landing, and looked at 
her, and a gentle and sad smile stole over his face, such 
as Corona had never seen there. 

“ Shall we go into your boudoir for ten minutes, my 
love ? ” he said ; “ or will you come into my smoking- 
room ? I would like to smoke a little before going to 
bed.” 

“You may smoke in my boudoir, of course,” she an- 
swered kindly, though she was surprised at the request. 
It was half-past three o’clock. They went into the softly 
lighted little room, where the embers of the fire were still 
glowing upon the hearth. Corona dropped her furs upon 
a chair, and sat down upon one side of the chimneypiece. 
Astrardente sank wearily into a deep easy-chair opposite 


174 


SARACINESCA. 


her, and having found a cigarette, lighted it, and began 
to smoke. He seemed in a mood which Corona had never 
seen. After a short silence he spoke. 

“ Corona,” he said, “ I love you.” His wife looked up 
with a gentle smile, and in her determination to be loyal 
to him she almost forgot that other man who had said 
those words but two hours before, so differently. 

“Yes,” he said, with a sigh, “you have heard it before 
— it is not new to you. I think you believe it. You are 
good, but you do not love me — no, do not interrupt me, 
my dear; I know what you would say. How should you 
love me ? I am an old man — very old, older than my 
years.” Again he sighed, more bitterly, as he confessed 
what he had never owned before. The Duchessa was too 
much astonished to answer him. 

“Corona,” he said again, “I shall not live much longer.” 

“Ah, do not speak like that,” she cried suddenly. “ I 
trust and pray that you have yet many years to live.” 
Her husband looked keenly at her. 

“You are so good,” he answered, “that you are really 
capable of uttering such a prayer, absurd as it would 
seem.” 

“ Why absurd ? It is unkind of you to say it ” 

“No, my dear; I know the world very well. That is 
all. I suppose it is impossible for me to make you 
understand how I love you. It must seem incredible to 
you, in the magnificence of your strength and beautiful 
youth, that a man like me — an artificial man” — he 
laughed scornfully — “a creature of paint and dye — let 
me be honest — a creature with a wig, should be capable 
of a mad passion. And yet, Corona,” he added, his thin 
cracked voice trembling with a real emotion, “ I do love 
you — very dearly. There are two things that make my 
life bitter : the regret that I did not meet you, that you 
were not born, when I was young ; and worse than that, 
the knowledge that I must leave you very soon — I, the 
exhausted dandy, the shadow of what I was, tottering to 
my grave in a last vain effort to be young for your sake 


SARACINESCA. 


175 


— for your sake, Corona dear. Ah, it is contemptible ! ” 
he almost moaned. 

Corona hid her eyes in her hand. She was taken off 
her guard by his strange speech. 

“ Oh, do not speak like that — do not ! ” she cried. 
“ You make me very unhappy. Do T reproach you ? Do 
I ever make you feel that you are — older than I ? I 
will lead a new life ; you shall never think of it again. 
You are too kind — too good for me.” 

“ No one ever said I was too good before,” replied the 
old man with a shade of sadness. “ I am glad the one 
person who finds me good, should be the only one for 
whose sake I ever cultivated goodness. I could have 
been different, Corona, if I had had you for my wife for 
thirty years, instead of five. But it is too late now. 
Before long I shall be dead, and you will be free.” 

“ What makes you say such things to me ? ” asked 
Corona. “ Can you think I am so vile, so ungrateful, so 
unloving, as to wish your death ? ” 

“Not unloving; no, my dear child. But not loving, 
either. T do not ask impossibilities. You will mourn 
for me a while — my poor soul will rest in peace if you 
feel one moment of real regret for me, for your old hus- 
band, before you take another. Do not cry, Corona, 
dearest ; it is the way of the world. We waste our youth 
in scoffing at reality, and in the unrealness of our old 
age the present no longer avails us much. You know 
me, perhaps you despise me. You would not have 
scorned me when I was young — oh, how young I was ! 
how strong and vain of my youth, thirty years ago ! ” 

“ Indeed, indeed, no such thought ever crossed my 
mind. I give you all I have,” cried Corona, in great 
distress ; “ I will give you more — I will devote my whole 
life to you ” 

“You do, my dear. I am sensible of it,” said Astrar- 
dente, quietly. “You cannot do more, if you will; you 
cannot make me young again, nor take away the bitter- 
ness of death — of a death that leaves you behind.” 


176 


SARACINESCA. 


Corona leaned forward, staring into the dying embers 
of the fire, one hand supporting her chin. The tears 
stood in her eyes and on her cheeks. The old dandy in 
his genuine misery had excited her compassion. 

“ I would mourn you long,” she said. “ You may have 
wasted your life ; you say so. I would love you more if 
I could, God knows. You have always been to me a 
courteous gentleman and a faithful husband.” 

The old man rose with difficulty from his deep chair, 
and came and stood by her, and took the hand that lay idle 
on her knees. She looked up at him. 

“ If I thought my blessing were worth anything, I would 
bless you for what you say. But I would not have you 
waste your youth. Youth is that which, being wasted, 
is like water poured out upon the ground. You must 
marry again, and marry soon — do not start. You will 
inherit all my fortune ; you will have my title. It must 
descend to your children. It has come to an unworthy 
end in me ; it must be revived in you.” 

“ How can you think of it ? Are you ill ? ” asked 
Corona kindly, pressing gently his thin hand in hers. 
“ Why do you dwell on the idea of death to-night ? ” 

“ I am ill ; yes, past all cure, my dear,” said the old 
man, gently raising her hand to his lips, and kissing it. 

“ What do you mean ? ” asked Corona, suddenly rising 
to her feet and laying her hand affectionately upon his 
shoulder. “ Why have you never told me ? ” 

“ Why should I tell you — except that it is near, and 
you must be prepared ? Why should I burden. you with 
anxiety ? But you were so gentle and kind to-night, upon 
the stairs,” he said, with some hesitation, “ that I thought 
perhaps it would be a relief to you to know — to know that 
it is not for long.” 

There was something so gentle in his tone, so infinitely 
pathetic in his thought that possibly he might lighten the 
burden his wife bore so bravely, there was something at 
last so human in the loving regret with which he spoke, 
that Corona forgot all his foolish ways, his wig and his 


SARACIKESCA. 177 

false teeth and his petty vanities, and letting her head fall 
upon his shoulder, burst into passionate tears. 

“ Oh no, no ! 55 she sobbed. “ It must be a long time 
yet ; you must not die ! 55 

“ It may be a year, not more , 57 he said gently. “ God 
bless you for those tears, Corona — the tears you have shed 
for me. Good night, my dearest . 55 

He let her sink upon her chair, and his hand rested 
for one moment upon her raven hair. Then with a last 
remnant of energy he quickly left the room. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Such affairs as the encounter between Giovanni and Del 
Ferice were very rare in Rome. There were many duels 
fought ; but, as a general rule, they were not very serious, 
and the first slight wound decided the matter in hand to 
the satisfaction of both parties. But here there had been 
a fight for life and death. One of the combatants had 
received two such wounds as would have been sufficient to 
terminate an ordinary meeting, and the other was lying 
at death’s door stabbed through the throat. Society was 
frantic with excitement. Giovanni was visited by scores 
of acquaintances, whom he allowed to be admitted, and he 
talked with them cheerfully, in order to have it thoroughly 
known that he was not badly hurt. Del Ferice’s lodging 
was besieged by the same young gentlemen of leisure, who 
went directly from one to the other, anxious to get all the 
news in their power. But Del Ferice 5 s door was guarded 
jealously from intruders by his faithful Neapolitan ser- 
vant — a fellow who knew more about his master than all 
the rest of Rome together, but who had such a dazzlingly 
brilliant talent for lying as to make him a safe repository 
for any secret committed to his keeping. On the present 
occasion, however, he had small use for duplicity. He 

L 


178 


SARACINESCA. 


sat all day long by the open door, for he had removed the 
bell-handle, lest the ringing should disturb his master. 
He had a basket into which he dropped the cards of the 
visitors who called, answering each inquiry with the 
same unchanging words : 

“ He is very ill, the signorino. Do not make any noise.” 

“ Where is he hurt ? ” the visitor would ask Where- 
upon Temistocle pointed to his throat. 

“Will he live ? ” was the next question ; to which the 
man answered by raising his shoulders to his ears, elevat- 
ing his eyebrows, and at the same time shutting his eyes, 
while he spread out the palms of his hands over his basket 
of cards — whereby he meant to signify that he did not 
know, but doubted greatly. It being impossible to extract 
any further information from him, the visitor had noth- 
ing left but to leave his card and turn away. Within, 
the wounded man was watched by a Sister of Mercy. 
The surgeon had pronounced his recovery probable if he 
had proper care : the wound was a dangerous one, but not 
likely to prove mortal unless the patient died of the fever 
or of exhaustion. 

The young gentlemen of leisure who thus obtained the 
news of the two duellists, lost no time in carrying it from 
house to house. Giovanni himself sent twice in the course 
of the day to inquire after his antagonist, and received by 
his servant the answer which was given to everybody. 
By the time the early winter night was descending upon 
Borne, there were two perfectly well-authenticated stories 
circulated in regard to the cause of the quarreb — neither 
of which, of course, contained a grain of truth. In the 
first place, it was confidently asserted by one party, repre- 
sented by Valdarno and his set, that Giovanni had taken 
offence at Del Ferice for having proposed to call him to 
be examined before the Duchessa d’Astrardente in regard 
to his absence from town : that this was a palpable excuse 
for picking a quarrel, because it was well known that Sar- 
acinesca loved the Astrardente, and that Del Ferice was 
always in his way. 


SARACINESCA. 


179 


“Giovanni is a rough fellow/’ remarked Valdarno, “and 
will not stand any opposition, so he took the first oppor- 
tunity of getting the man out of the way. Do you see ? 
The old story — jealous of the wrong man. Can one be 
jealous of Del Ferice ? Bah ! ” 

“ And who would have been the right man to attack ?” 
was asked. 

“Her husband, of course,” returned Valdarno with a 
sneer. “ That angel of beauty has the ineffably eccentric 
idea that she loves that old transparency, that old magic- 
lantern slide of a man ! ” 

On the other hand, there was a party of people who 
affirmed, as beyond all doubt, that the duel had been 
brought about by Giovanni’s forgetting his dance with 
Donna Tullia. Del Ferice was naturally willing to put 
himself forward in her defence, reckoning on the favour 
he would gain in her eyes. He had spoken sharply to 
Giovanni about it, and told him he had behaved in an un- 
gentlemanly manner — whereupon Giovanni had answered 
that it was none of his business ; an altercation had ensued 
in a remote room in the Frangipani palace, and Giovanni 
had lost his temper and taken Del Ferice by the throat, 
and otherwise greatly insulted him. The result had been 
the duel in which Del Ferice had been nearly killed. 
There was a show of truth about this story, and it was 
told in such a manner as to make Del Ferice appear as 
the injured party. Indeed, whichever tale were true, 
there was no doubt that the two men had disliked each 
other for a long time, and that they were both looking 
out for the opportunity of an open disagreement. 

Old Saracinesca appeared in the afternoon, and was sur- 
rounded by eager questioners of all sorts. The fact of his 
having served his own son in the capacity of second ex- 
cited general astonishment. Such a thing had not been 
heard of in the annals of Roman society, and many an- 
cient wisdom-mongers severely censured the course he 
had pursued. Could anything be more abominably un- 
natural ? Was it possible to conceive of the hard-heart- 


180 


SARACINESCA. 


edness of a man who could stand quietly and see his son 
risk his life ? Disgraceful ! 

The old Prince either would not tell what he knew, or 
had no information to give. The latter theory w^as im- 
probable. Some one made a remark to that elfect. 

“ But, Prince,” the man said, “ would you second your 
own son in an affair without knowing the cause of the 
quarrel ? ” 

“ Sir,” returned the old man, proudly, “ my son asked 
my assistance; I did not sell it to him for his confidence.” 
People knew the old man’s obstinacy, and had to be sat- 
isfied with his short answers, for he was himself as quar- 
relsome as a Berserker or as one of his own irascible 
ancestors. 

He met Donna Tullia in the street. She stopped her 
carriage, and beckoned him to come to her. She looked 
paler than Saracinesca had ever seen her, and was much 
excited. 

“How could you let them fight?” were her first words. 

“It could not be helped. The quarrel was too serious. 
No one would more gladly have prevented it than I ; but 
as my son had so desperately insulted Del Ferice, he was 
bound to give him satisfaction.” 

“ Satisfaction ! ” cried Donna Tullia. “ Do you call it 
satisfaction to cut a man’s throat ? What was the real 
cause of the quarrel ? ” 

“I do not know.” 

“Do not tell me that — I do not believe you,” answered 
Donna Tullia, angrily. 

“ I give you my word of honour that I do not know,” 
returned the Prince. 

“ That is different. Will you get in and drive with 
me for a few minutes ? ” 

“At your commands.” Saracinesca opened the carriage- 
door and got in. 

“We shall astonish the world; but I do not care,” said 
Donna Tullia. “ Tell me, is Don Giovanni seriously 
hurt ? ” 


SARACINESCA. 181 

“ No — a couple of scratches that will heal in a week. 
Del Ferice is very seriously wounded.” 

“I know,” answered Donna Tullia, sadly. “It is 
dreadful — I am afraid it was my fault.” 

“ How so ? ” asked Saracinesca, quickly. He had not 
heard the story of the forgotten waltz, and was really 
ignorant of the original cause of disagreement. He 
guessed, however, that Donna Tullia was not so much, 
concerned in it as the Duchessa d’Astrardente. 

“ Your son was very rude to me,” said Madame Mayer. 
“Perhaps I ought not to tell you, but it is best you should 
know. He was engaged to dance with me the last waltz 
but one before the cotillon. He forgot me, and I found 
him with that — with a lady — talking quietly.” 

“With whom did you say?” asked Saracinesca, very 
gravely. 

“ With the Astrardente — if you will know,” returned 
Donna Tullia, her anger at the memory of the insult 
bringing the blood suddenly to her face. 

“ My dear lady,” said the old Prince, “ in the name of 
my son I offer you the humble apologies which he will 
make in person when he is well enough to ask your for- 
giveness.” 

“ I do not want apologies,” answered Madame Mayer, 
turning her face away. 

“ Nevertheless they shall be offered. But, pardon my 
curiosity, how did Del Ferice come to be concerned in 
that incident ? ” 

“ He was with me when I found Don Giovanni with 
the Duchessa. It is very simple. I was very angry — I 
am very angry still ; but I would not have had Don 
Giovanni risk his life on my account for anything, nor 
poor Del Ferice either. I am horribly upset about it 
all.” 

Old Saracinesca wondered whether Donna Tullia’s 
vanity would suffer if he told her that the duel had not 
been fought for anything which concerned her. But he 
reflected that her supposition was very plausible, and 


182 


SARACINESCA. 


that he himself had no evidence. Furthermore, and in 
spite of his good-natured treatment of Giovanni, he was 
very angry at the thought that his son had quarrelled 
about the Duchessa. When Giovanni should be re- 
covered from his wounds he intended to speak his mind 
to him. But he was sorry for Donna Tullia, for he liked 
her in spite of her eccentricities, and would have been 
satisfied to see her married to his son. He was a practi- 
cal man, and he took a prosaic view of the world. Donna 
Tullia was rich, and good-looking enough to be called 
handsome., She had the talent to make herself a sort of 
centre in her world. She was a little noisy ; but noise 
was fashionable, and there was no harm in her — no one 
had ever said anything against her. Besides, she was one 
of the few relations still left to the Saracinesca. The 
daughter of a cousin of the Prince, she would make a 
good wife for Giovanni, and would bring sunshine into 
the house. There was a tinge of vulgarity in her man- 
ner; but, like many elderly men of his type, Saracinesca 
pardoned her this fault in consideration of her noisy 
good spirits and general good-nature. He was very much 
annoyed at hearing that his son had offended her so 
grossly by his forgetfulness ; especially it was unfortu- 
nate that since she believed herself the cause of the duel, 
she should have the impression that it had been provoked 
by Del Ferice to obtain satisfaction for the insult Giovanni 
had offered her. There would be small chance of mak- 
ing the match contemplated after such an affair. 

“ I am sincerely sorry,” said the Prince, stroking his 
white beard and trying to get a sight of his companion’s 
face, which she obstinately turned away from him. “ Per- 
haps it is better not to think too much of the matter until 
the exact circumstances are known. Some one is sure to 
tell the story one of these days.” 

“How coldly you speak of it ! One would think it had 
happened in Peru, instead of here, this very morning.” 

Saracinesca was at his wits’ end. He wanted to smooth 
the matter over, or at least to soften the unfavourable im- 


SARACINESCA. 183 

pression against Giovanni. He had not the remotest idea 
how to do it. He was not a very diplomatic man. 

“No, no; you misunderstand me. I am not cold. I 
quite appreciate your situation. You are very justly 
annoyed.” 

“Of course I am,” said Donna Tullia impatiently. 
She was beginning to regret that she had made him get 
into her carriage. 

“Precisely; of course you are. Now, so soon as Gio- 
vanni is quite recovered, I will send him to explain his 
conduct to you if he can, or to ” 

“ Explain it ? How can he explain it ? I do not want 
you to send him, if he will not come of his own accord. 
Why should I ? ” 

“Well, well, as you please, my dear cousin,” said old 
Saracinesqa, smiling. to cover his perplexity. “I am not 
a good ambassador ; but you know I am a good friend, 
and I really want to do something to restore Giovanni to 
your graces.” 

“That will be difficult,” answered Donna Tullia, al- 
though she knew very well that she would receive Gio- 
vanni kindly enough when she had once had an opportu- 
nity of speaking her mind to him. 

“ Do not be hard-hearted,” urged the Prince. “ I am 
sure he is very penitent.” 

“ Then let him say so.” 

“ That is exactly what I ask.” 

“Is it? Oh, very well. If he chooses to call I will 
receive him, since you desire it. Where shall I put you 
down ? ” 

“Anywhere, thank you. Here, if you wish — at the 
corner. Good-bye. Do not be too hard on the boy.” 

“We shall see,” answered Donna Tullia, unwilling to 
show too much indulgence. The old Prince bowed, and 
walked away into the gloom of the dusky streets. 

“That is over,” he muttered to himself. “I wonder 
how the Astrardente takes it.” He would have liked to 
see her; but he recognized that, as he so very rarely 


.184 


SARACINESCA. 


called upon her, it would seem strange to choose such a 
time for his visit. It would not do — it would be hardly 
decent, seeing that he believed her to be the cause of the 
catastrophe. His steps, however, led him almost uncon- 
-sciously in the direction of the Astrardente palace; he 
found himself in front of the arched entrance almost be-, 
fore he knew where he was. The temptation to see Co- 
rona was more than he could resist. He asked the porter 
if the Duchessa was at home, and on. being answered in 
the affirmative, he boldly entered and ascended the 
marble staircase — boldly, but with an odd sensation, like 
that of a schoolboy who is getting himself into trouble. 

Corona had just come home, and was sitting by the fire 
in her great drawing-room, alone, with a book in her 
hand, which she was not reading. She rarely remained 
in the reception-rooms ; but to-day she had rather capri- 
ciously taken a fancy to the broad solitude of the place, 
and had accordingly installed herself there. She was 
very much surprised when the doors were suddenly 
opened wide and the servant announced Prince Sara- 
cinesca. For a moment she thought it must be Giovanni, 
for his father rarely entered her house, and when the 
old man’s stalwart figure advanced towards her, she 
dropped her book in astonishment, and rose from her 
deep chair to meet him. She was very pale, and there 
were dark rings under her eyes that spoke of pain and 
want of sleep. She was so utterly different from Donna 
Tullia, whom he had just left, that the Prince was almost 
awed by her stateliness, and felt more than ever like a 
boy in a bad scrape. Corona bowed rather coldly, but 
extended her hand, which the old gentleman raised to 
his lips respectfully, in the manner of the old school. 

“ I trust you are not exhausted after the ball ? ” he 
began, not knowing what to say. 

“Not in the least. We did not stay late,” replied 
Corona, secretly wondering why he had come. 

“It was really magnificent,” he answered. “There 
has been no such ball for years. Very unfortunate that 


SARACINESCA. 


185 


it should have terminated in such an unpleasant way,” 
he added, making a bold dash at the subject of which he 
wished to speak. 

“Very. You did a bad morning’s work,” said the 
Duchessa, severely. “I wonder that you should speak 
of it.” 

“No one speaks of anything else,” returned the Prince, 
apologetically. “Besides, I do not see what was to be 
done.” 

“You should have stopped it,” answered Corona, her 
dark eyes gleaming with righteous indignation. “You 
should have prevented it at any price, if not in the name 
of religion, which forbids it as a crime, at least in the 
name of decency — as being Don Giovanni’s father.” 

“You speak strong words, Duchessa,” said the Prince, 
evidently annoyed at her tone. 

“ If I speak strongly, it is because I think you acted 
shamefully in permitting this disgraceful butchery.” 

Saracinesca suddenly lost his temper, as he frequently 
did. 

“Madam,” he said, “it is certainly not for you to 
accuse me of crime, lack of decency, and what you are 
pleased to call disgraceful butchery, seeing who was the 
probable cause of the honourable encounter which you 
characterise in such tasteful language.” 

“ Honourable indeed ! ” said Corona, very scornfully. 
“ Let that pass. Who, pray, is more to blame than you ? 
Who is the probable cause ? ” 

“Need I tell you?” asked the old man, fixing his 
flashing eyes upon her. 

“ What do you mean ? ” inquired Corona, turning 
white, and her voice trembling between her anger and 
her emotion. 

“I may be wrong,” said the Prince, “but I believe I 
am right. I believe the duel was fought on your 
account.” 

“ On my account ! ” repeated Corona, half rising from 
her chair in her indignation. Then she sank back again, 


186 


SARACINESCA. 


and added, very coldly, “ If you have come here to insult 
me, Prince, I will send for my husband.” 

“ I beg your pardon, Duchessa,” said old Saracinesca. 
“ It is very far from my intention to insult you.” 

“ And who has told you this abominable lie ? ” asked 
Corona, still very angry. 

“ No one, upon my word.” 

“ Then how dare you ” 

“ Because I have reason to believe that you are the 
only woman alive for whom my son would engage in a 
quarrel.” 

“ It is impossible,” cried Corona. “ I will never believe 
that Don Giovanni could ” She checked herself. 

“Don Giovanni Saracinesca is a gentleman, madam,” 
said the old Prince, proudly. “ He keeps his own coun- 
sel. I have come by the information without any evi- 
dence of it from his lips.” 

“Then I am at a loss to understand you,” returned 
the Duchessa. “ I must beg you either to explain your 
extraordinary language, or else to leave me.” 

Corona d’Astrardente was a match for any man when 
she was angry. But old Saracinesca, though no diplo- 
matist, was a formidable adversary, from his boldness 
and determination to discover the truth at any price. 

“ It is precisely because, at the risk of offending you, I 
desired an explanation, that I have intruded my sell upon 
you to-day,” he answered. “ Will you permit me one 
question before I leave you ? ” 

“ Provided it is not an insulting one, I will answer it,” 
replied Corona. 

“ Do you know anything of the circumstances which led 
to this morning’s encounter ? ” 

“ Certainly not,” Corona answered, hotly. “ I assure 
you most solemnly,” she continued in calmer tones, “ that 
I am wholly ignorant of it. I suppose you have a right to 
be told that.” 

“ I, on my part, assure you, upon my word, that I know 
no more than you yourself, excepting this : on some provo- 


SARACINESCA. 


187 


cation, concerning which he will not speak, my son seized 
Del Derice by the throat and used strong words to him. 
N o one witnessed the scene. Del Ferice sent the challenge. 
My son could find no one to act for him and applied 
to me, as was quite right that he should. There was no 
apology possible — Giovanni had to give the man satisfac- 
tion. You know as much as I know now.” 

“ That does not help me to understand why you accuse 
me of having caused the quarrel,” said Corona. “ What 
have I to do with Del Ferice, poor man ? ” 

“ This — any one can see that you are as indifferent to 
my son as to any other man. Every one knows that the 
Duchessa d’Astrardente is above suspicion.” 

Corona raised her head proudly and stared at Sara- 
cinesca. 

“ But, on the other hand, every one knows that my son 
loves you madly — can you yourself deny it ? ” 

“ Who dares to say it ? ” asked Corona, her anger rising 
afresh. 

“ Who sees, dares. Can you deny it ? ” 

“ You have no right to repeat such hearsay tales to 
me,” answered Corona. But the blush rose to her pale 
dark cheeks, and she suddenly dropped her eyes. 

“ Can you deny it, Duchessa? ” asked the Prince a third 
time, insisting roughly. 

“ Since you are so certain, why need you care for my 
denial ? ” inquired Corona. 

“ Duchessa, you must forgive me,” answered Saracinesca, 
his tone suddenly softening. “ I am rough, probably rude ; 
but I love my son dearly. I cannot bear to see him run- 
ning into a dangerous and hopeless passion, from which he 
may issue only to find himself grown suddenly old and 
bitter, disappointed and miserable for the rest of his life. 
I believe you to be a very good woman ; I cannot look at 
you and doubt the truth of anything you tell me. If he 
loves you, you have influence over him. If you have in- 
fluence, use it for his good ; use it to break down this mad 
love of his, to show him his own folly — to save him, in 


188 


SAEACINESCA. 


short, from his fate. Do you understand me ? Do I ask 
too much ? ” 

Corona understood well enough — far too well. She 
knew the whole extent of Giovanni’s love for her, and, 
what old Saracinesca never guessed, the strength of her 
own love for him, for the sake of which she would do all 
that a woman could do. There was a long pause after 
the old Prince had spoken. He waited patiently for an 
answer. 

“ I understand you — -yes,” she said at last. “ If you are 
right in your surmises, I should have some influence over 
your son. If I can advise him, and he will take my advice, 
I will give him the best counsel I can. You have placed 
me in a very embarrassing position, and you have shown 
little courtesy in the way you have spoken to me ; but I 
will try to do as you request me, if the opportunity offers, 
for the sake of — of turning what is very bad into some- 
thing which may at last be good.” 

“ Thank you, thank you, Duchessa ! ” cried the Prince. 
“ I will never forget ” 

“ Do not thank me,” said Corona, coldly. “ I am not in 
a mood to appreciate your gratitude. There is too much 
blood of those honest gentlemen upon your hands.” 

“ Pardon me, Duchessa, I wish there were on my hands 
and head the blood of that gentleman you call honest — 
the gentleman who twice tried to murder my son this 
morning, and twice nearly succeeded.” 

“ What ! ” cried Corona, in sudden terror. . 

“ That fellow thrust at Giovanni once to kill him while 
they were halting and his sword was hanging lowered in 
his hand; and once again he threw himself upon his 
knee and tried to stab him in the body — which is a 
dastardly trick not permitted in any country. Even in 
duelling, such things are called murder ; and it is their 
right name.” 

Corona was very pale. Giovanni’s danger had been 
suddenly brought before her in a very vivid light, and 
she was horror-struck at the thought of it. 


SARACINESCA. 


189 


"Is — is Don Giovanni very badly wounded ?” she asked. 

“ No, thank heaven ; he will be well in a week. But 
either one of those attempts might have killed him ; and 
he would have died, I think — pardon me, no insult this 
time — I think, on your account. Do you see why for 
him I dread this attachment to you, which leads him to 
risk his life at every turn for a word about you ? Do 
you see why I implore you to take the matter into your 
serious consideration, and to use your influence to bring 
him to his senses ? ” 

“ I see ; but in this question of the duel you have no 
proof that I was concerned.’’ 

“No, — no proof, perhaps. I will not weary you with 
surmises; but even if it was not for you this time, you 
see that it might have been.” 

“ Perhaps,” said Corona, very sadly. 

“ I have to thank you, even if you will not listen to 
me,” said the Prince, rising. “You have understood 
me. It was all I asked. Good night.” 

“Good night,” answered Corona, who did not move 
from her seat nor extend her hand this time. She was 
too much agitated to think of formalities. Saracinesca 
bowed low and left the room. 

It was characteristic of him that he had come to see 
the Duchessa not knowing what he should say, and that 
he had blurted out the whole truth, and then lost his 
temper in support of it. He was a hasty man, of noble 
instincts, but always inclined rather to cut a knot than 
to unloose it — to do by force what another man would 
do by skill — angry at opposition, and yet craving it by 
his combative nature. 

His first impulse on leaving Corona was to go to 
Giovanni and tell him what he had done ; but he reflected 
as he went home that his son was ill with his wounds, 
and that it would be bad for him to be angry, as of 
course he would be if he were told of his father’s doings. 
Moreover, as old Saracinesca thought more seriously 
of the matter, he wisely concluded that it would be 


190 


SAKACINESCA. 


better not to speak of the visit ; and when he entered 
the room where Giovanni was lying on his couch with a 
novel and a cigarette, he had determined to conceal the 
whole matter. 

“Well, Giovanni,” he said, “we are the talk of the 
town, of course.” 

“ It was to be expected. Whom have you seen ? ” 

“ In the first place, I have seen Madame Mayer. She 
is in a state of anger against you which borders on mad- 
ness — not because you have wounded Del Ferice, but 
because you forgot to dance with her. I cannot conceive 
how you could be so foolish.” 

“ Nor I. It was idiotic in the last degree,” replied 
Giovanni, annoyed that his father should have learned 
the story. 

“You must go and see her at once — as soon as you can 
go out. It is a disagreeable business.” 

“ Of course. What else did she say ? ” 

“ She thought that Del Ferice had challenged you on 
her account, because you had not danced with her.” 

“How silly ! As if I should fight duels about her.” 

“ Since there was probably a woman in the case, she 
might have been the one,” remarked his father. 

“There was no woman in the case, practically speak- 
ing,” said Giovanni, shortly. 

“ Oh, I supposed there was. However, I told Donna 
Tullia that I advised her not to think anything more of 
the matter until the whole story came out.” 

“ When is that likely to occur ? ” asked Giovanni, laugh- 
ing. “No one alive knows the cause of the quarrel but 
Del Ferice and I myself. He will certainly not tell the 
world, as the thing was even more disgraceful to him than 
his behaviour this morning. There is no reason why I 
should speak of it either.” 

“ How reticent you are, Giovanni ! ” exclaimed the old 
gentleman. 

“ Believe me, if I could tell you the whole story with- 
out injuring any one but Del Ferice, I would.” 


SARACTNESCA. 


191 


“ Then there was really a woman in the case ? ” 

“ There was a woman outside the case, who caused us to 
be in it,” returned Giovanni. 

“ Always your detestable riddles,” cried the old man, 
petulantly ; and presently, seeing that his son was obsti- 
nately silent, he left the room to dress for dinner. 


CHAPTER XV. 

It may be that when Astrardente spoke so tenderly to 
his wife after the Frangipani ball, he felt some warning 
that told him his strength was failing. His heart was in a 
dangerous condition, the family doctor had said, and it was 
necessary that he should take care of himself. He had been 
very tired after that long evening, and perhaps some sudden 
sinking had shaken his courage. He awoke from an un- 
usually heavy sleep with a strange sense of astonishment, 
as though he had not expected to awake again in life. He 
felt weaker than he had felt for a long time, and even his 
accustomed beverage of chocolate mixed with coffee failed 
to give him the support he needed in the morning. He rose 
very late, and his servant found him more than usually 
petulant, nor did the message brought back from Giovanni 
seem to improve his temper. He met his wife at the mid- 
day breakfast, and was strangely silent, and in the after- 
noon he shut himself up in his own rooms and would see 
nobody. But at dinner he appeared again, seemingly re- 
vived, and declared his intention of accompanying his 
wife to a reception given at the Austrian embassy. He 
seemed so unlike his usual self, that Corona did not ven- 
ture to speak of the duel which had taken place in the 
morning; for she feared anything which might excite 
him, well knowing that excitement might prove fatal. 
She did what she could to dissuade him from going out; 
but he grew petulant, and she unwillingly yielded. 


192 


SARACINESCA. 


At the embassy he soon heard all the details, for no one 
talked of anything else ; but Astrardente was ashamed of 
not having heard it all before, and affected a cynical in- 
difference to the tale which the military attache of the 
embassy repeated for his benefit. He vouchsafed some 
remark to the effect that fighting duels was the natural 
amusement of young gentlemen, and that if one of them 
killed another there was at least one fool the less in 
society ; after which he looked about him for some young 
beauty to whom he might reel off a score of compliments. 
He knew all the time that he was making a great effort, 
that he felt unaccountably ill, and that he wished he ha*d 
taken his wife’s advice and stayed quietly at home. But 
at the end of the evening he chanced to overhear a re- 
mark that Yaldarno was making to Casalverde, who 
looked exceedingly pale and ill at ease. 

“ You had better make your will, my dear fellow,” said 
Yaldarno. “ Spicca is a terrible man with the foils.” 

Astrardente turned quickly and looked at the speaker. 
But both men were suddenly silent, and seemed absorbed 
in gazing at the crowd. It was enough, however. Astrar- 
dente had gathered that Casalverde was to fight Spicca 
the next day, and that the affair begun that morning had 
not yet reached its termination. He determined that he 
would not again be guilty of not knowing what was going 
on in society ; and with the intention of rising early on 
the following morning, he found Corona, and rather un- 
ceremoniously told her it was time to go home. 

On the next day the Duca d’ Astrardente walked into 
the club soon after ten o’clock. On ordinary occasions 
that resort of his fellows was entirely empty until a much 
later hour ; but Astrardente was not disappointed to-day. 
Twenty or thirty men were congregated in the large hall 
which served as a smoking-room, and all of them were 
talking together excitedly. As the door swung on its 
hinges and the old dandy entered, a sudden silence fell 
upon the assembly. Astrardente naturally judged that 
the conversation had turned upon himself, and had been 


SARACLNESCA. 


193 


checked by his appearance; but he affected to take no 
notice of the occurrence, adjusting his single eyeglass in 
his eye and serenely surveying the men in the room. 
He could see that, although they had been talking loudly, 
the matter in hand was serious enough, for there was no 
trace of mirth on any of the faces before him. He at 
once assumed an air of gravity, and going up to Valdarno, 
who seemed to have occupied the most prominent place in 
the recent discussion, he put his question in an undertone. 

“ I suppose Spicca killed him ? ” 

Valdarno nodded, and looked grave. He was a thought- 
less young fellow enough, but the news of the tragedy 
had sobered him. Astrardente had anticipated the death 
of Casalverde, and was not surprised. But he was not 
without human feeling, and showed a becoming regret at 
the sad end of a man he had been accustomed to see so 
frequently. 

“How was it ?-” he asked. 

“A simple ‘un, deux/ tierce and carte at the first bout. 
Spicca is as quick as lightning. Come away from this 
crowd,” added Valdarno, in a low voice, “and I will tell 
you all about it.” 

In spite of his sorrow at his friend’s death, Valdarno 
felt a certain sense of importance at being able to tell the 
story to Astrardente. Valdarno was vain in a small way, 
though his vanity was to that of the old Duca as the 
humble violet to the full-blown cabbage-rose. Astrardente 
enjoyed a considerable importance in society as the hus- 
band of Corona, and was an object of especial interest to 
Valdarno, who supported the incredible theory of Corona’s 
devotion to the old man. Valdarno’s stables were near 
the club, and on pretence of showing a new horse to 
Astrardente, he nodded to his friends, and left the room 
with the aged dandy. It was a clear, bright winter’s 
morning, and the two men strolled slowly down the Corso 
towards Valdarno’s palace. 

“You know, of course, how the affair began ? ” asked 
the young man. 

M 


194 


SARACINESCA. 


“The first duel ? Nobody knows — certainly not I.” 

“Well — perhaps not,” returned Valdarno, doubtfully. 
“ At all events, you know that Spicca flew into a passion 
because poor Casalverde forgot to step in after he cried 
halt ; and then Del Ferice ran Giovanni through the arm.” 

“ That was highly improper — most reprehensible,” said 
Astrardente, putting up his ej^eglass to look at a pretty 
little sempstress who hurried past on her way to her work. 

“I suppose so. But Casalverde certainly meant no 
harm ; and if Del Ferice had not been so unlucky as to 
forget himself in the excitement of the moment, no one 
would have thought anything of it.” 

“ Ah yes, I suppose not,” murmured Astrardente, still 
looking after the girl. When he could see her face no 
longer, he turned sharply back to Valdarno. 

“ This is exceedingly interesting,” he said. “ Tell me 
more about it.” 

“ Well, when it was over, old Saracinesca was for killing 
Casalverde himself.” 

“ The old fire-eater ! He ought to be ashamed of him- 
self.” 

“ However, Spicca was before him, and challenged Casal- 
verde then and there. As both the principals in the first 
duel were so badly wounded, it had to be put off until 
this morning.” 

“ They went out, and — piff, paff ! Spicca ran him 
through,” interrupted Astrardente. “What a horrible 
tragedy ! ” 

“ Ah yes ; and what is worse ” 

“What surprises me most,” interrupted the Duca again, 
“is that in this delightfully peaceful and paternally gov- 
erned little nest of ours, the authorities should not have 
been able to prevent either of these duels. It is perfectly 
amazing! I cannot remember a parallel instance. Do 
you mean to say that there was not a sbirro or a gendarme 
in the neighbourhood to-day nor yesterday ? ” 

“ That is not so surprising,” answered Valdarno, with a 
knowing look. “There would have been few tears in 


SARACINESCA. 


195 


high quarters if Del Ferice had been killed yesterday ; 
there will be few to-day over the death of poor Casal- 
verde.” 

“Bah!” ejaculated Astrardente. “If Antonelli had 
heard of these affairs he would have stopped them soon 
enough.” 

Valdarno glanced behind him, and, bending a little, 
whispered in Astrardente’s ear — 

“ They were both Liberals, you must know.” 

“ Liberals ? ” repeated the old dandy, with a cynical 
sneer. “Nonsense, I say ! Liberals ? Yes, in the way 
you are a Liberal, and Donna Tullia Mayer, and Spicca 
himself, who has just killed that other Liberal, Casalverde. 
Liberals indeed ! Do you flatter yourself for a moment 
that Antonelli is afraid of such Liberals as you are ? Do 
you think the life of Del Ferice is of any more importance 
to politics than the life of that dog there ? ” 

It was Astrardente’s habit to scoff mercilessly at all the 
petty manifestations of political feeling he saw about him 
in the world. He represented a class distinct both from 
the Yaldarno set and from the men represented by the 
Saracinesca— a class who despised everything political as 
unworthy of the attention of gentlemen, who took every- 
thing for granted, and believed that all was for the best, 
provided that society moved upon rollers and so long as 
no one meddled with old institutions. To question the 
wisdom of the municipal regulations was to attack the 
Government itself; to attack the Government was to cast 
a slight upon his Holiness the Pope, which was rank 
heresy, and very vulgar into the bargain. Astrardente 
had seen a great deal of the world, but his ideas of politics 
were almost childishly simple — whereas many people said 
that his principles in relation to his fellows were fiendishly 
cynical. He was certainly not a very good man ; and if 
he pretended to no reputation for devoutness, it was prob- 
able that he recognised the absurdity of his attempting 
such a pose. But politically he believed in Cardinal 
Antonelli’s ability to defy Europe with or without the 


196 


SARACINESCA. 


aid of France, and laughed as loudly at Louis Napoleon’s 
old idea of putting the sovereign Pontiff at the head of 
an Italian federation, as he jeered at Cavour’s favourite 
phrase concerning a free Church in a free State. He had 
good blood in him, and the hereditary courage often found 
with it. He had a certain skill in matters worldly ; but his 
wit in things political seemed to belong to an earlier gener- 
ation, and to be incapable of receiving new impressions. 

But Yaldarno, who was vain and set great value on his 
opinions, was deeply offended at the way Astrardente 
spoke of him and his friends. In his eyes he was risking 
much for what he considered a good object, and he re- 
sented any contemptuous mention of Liberal principles, 
whenever he dared. No one cared much for Astrardente, 
and certainly no one feared him ; nevertheless in those 
times men hesitated to defend anything which came under 
the general head of Liberalism, when they were likely to 
be overheard, or when they could not trust the man to 
whom they were speaking. If no one feared Astrardente, 
no one trusted him either. Yaldarno consequently judged 
it best to smother his annoyance at the old man’s words, 
and to retaliate by striking him in a weak spot. 

“ If you despise Del Ferice as much as you say,” he re- 
marked, “ I wonder that you tolerate him as you do.” 

“ I tolerate him. Toleration is the very word — it de- 
lightfully expresses my feelings towards him. He is a 
perfectly harmless creature, who affects immense depth 
of insight into human affairs, and who cannot see an inch 
before his face. Dear me ! yes, I shall always tolerate 
Del Ferice, poor fellow ! ” 

“ You may not be called upon to do so much longer,” 
replied Yaldarno. “They say he is in a very dangerous 
condition.” 

“ Ah ! ” ejaculated Astrardente, putting up his eye- 
glass at his companion. “ Ah, you don’t say so ! ” 

There was something so insolent in the old man’s 
affected stare that even the foolish and good-natured Yal- 
darno lost his temper, being already somewhat irritated. 


saracinesca. 


197 


“ It is a pity that you should be so indifferent. It is 
hardly becoming. If you had not tolerated him as you 
have, he might not be lying there at the point of death.” 

Astrardente stared harder than ever. 

“My dear young friend,” he said, “your language is 
the most extraordinary I ever heard. How in the world 
can my treatment of that unfortunate man have had any- 
thing to do with his being wounded in a duel ? ” 

“My dear old friend,” replied Valdarno, impudently 
mimicking the old man’s tone, “ your simplicity surpasses 
anything I ever knew. Is it possible that you do not 
know that this duel was fought for your wife ? ” 

Astrardente looked fixedly at Valdarno ; his eyeglass 
dropped from his eye, and he turned ashy pale beneath 
his paint. He staggered a moment, and steadied himself 
against the door of a shop. They were just passing the 
corner of the Piazza di Sciarra, the most crowded crossing 
of the Corso. 

“Valdarno,” said the old man, his cracked voice drop- 
ping to a hoarser and deeper tone, “ you must explain 
yourself or answer for this.” 

“What! Another duel!” cried Valdarno, in some 
scorn. Then, seeing that his companion looked ill, he 
took him by the arm and led him rapidly through the 
crowd, across the Arco dei Carbognani. Entering the 
Caff& Aragno, a new institution in those days, both men 
sat down at a small marble table. The old dandy was 
white with emotion ; Valdarno felt that he was enjoying 
his revenge. 

“ A glass of cognac, Duke ? ” he said, as the waiter 
came up. Astrardente nodded, and there was silence 
while the man brought the cordial. The Duca lived by 
an invariable rule, seeking to balance the follies of his 
youth by excessive care in his old age ; it was long, in- 
deed, since he had taken a glass of brandy in the morning. 
He swallowed it quickly, and the stimulant produced its 
effect immediately ; he readjusted his eyeglass, and faced 
Valdarno sternly. 


198 


SARACINESCA. 


“ And now,” lie said, “ that we are at our ease, may I 
inquire what the devil you mean by your insinuations 
about my wife ? ” 

“Oh,” replied Valdarno, affecting great indifference, 
“ I only say what everybody says. There is no offence 
to the Duchessa.” 

“ I should suppose not, indeed. Go on.” 

“ Do you really care to hear the story ? ” asked the 
young man. 

“ I intend to hear it, and at once,” replied Astrardente. 

“ You will not have to employ force to extract it from 
me, I can assure you,” said Valdarno, settling himself in 
his chair, but avoiding the angry glance of the old man. 
“ Everybody has been repeating it since the day before 
yesterday, when it occurred. You were at the Frangipani 
ball — you might have seen it all. In the first place, you 
must know that there exists another of those beings to 
whom you extend your merciful toleration — a certain 
Giovanni Saracinesca — you may have noticed him ? ” 

“ What of him ? ” asked Astrardente, fiercely. 

“ Among other things, he is the man who wounded Del 
Ferice, as I daresay you have heard. Among other things 
concerning him, he has done himself the honour of fall- 
ing desperately, madly in love with the Duchessa d’ Astrar- 
dente, who ” 

“ What ? ” cried the old man in a cracked voice, as 
Valdarno paused. 

“ Who does you the honour of ignoring his existence 
on most occasions, but who was so unfortunate as to re- 
call him to her memory on the night of the Frangipani 
ball. We were all sitting in a circle round the Duchessa’ s 
chair that night, when the conversation chanced to turn 
upon this same Giovanni Saracinesca, a fire-eating fellow 
with a bad temper. He had been away for some days ; 
indeed he was last seen at the Apollo in your box, when 
they gave ‘ Norma ’ ” 

“ I remember,” interrupted Astrardente. The mention 
of that evening was but a random shot. Valdarno had 


SARACINESCA. 


199 


been in the club-box, and had seen Giovanni when he 
made his visit to the Astrardente ; he had not seen him 
again till the Frangipani ball. 

'“Well, as I was saying, we spoke of Giovanni, and 
every one had something to say about his absence. The 
Duchessa expressed her curiosity, and Del Ferice, who 
was with us, proposed calling him — he was at the other 
end of the room, you see — that he might answer for him- 
self. So I went and brought him up. He was in a very 
bad humour •” 

“What has all this absurd story got to do with the 
matter ? ” asked the old man, impatiently. 

“It is the matter itself. The irascible Giovanni is 
angry at being questioned, treats us all like mud under 
his feet, sits down by the Duchessa and forces us to go 
away. The Duchessa tells him the story, with a laugh 
no doubt, and Giovanni’s wrath overflows. He goes in 
search of Del Ferice, and nearly strangles him. The re- 
sult of these eccentricities is the first duel, leading to the 
second.” 

Astrardente was very angry, and his thin gloved hands 
twitched nervously at the handle of his stick. 

“ And this,” he said — “ this string of trivial ball-room 
incident, seems to you a sufficient pretext for stating 
that the duel was about my wife ? ” 

“ Certainly,” replied Valdarno, coolly. “ If Saracinesca 
had not been for months openly devoting himself to the 
Duchessa — who, I assure you, takes no kind of notice of 
him ” 

“ You need not waste words ” 

“ I do not, — and if Giovanni had not thought it worth 
while to be jealous of Del Ferice, there would have been 
no fighting.” 

“ Have you been telling your young friends that my 
wife was the cause of all this ? ” asked Astrardente, 
trembling with a genuine rage which lent a certain mo- 
mentary dignity to his feeble frame and painted face. 

“ Why not ? ” 


200 


SAKACINESCA. 


“ Have you or have you not ? ” 

“ Certainly — if you please,” returned Valdarno inso- 
lently, enjoying the old man’s fury. 

“Then permit me to tell you that you have taken 
upon yourself an outrageous liberty, that you have lied, 
and that you do not deserve to be treated like a 
gentleman.” 

Astrardente got upon his feet and left the cafe with- 
out further words. Valdarno had indeed wounded him 
in a weak spot, and the wound was mortal. His blood 
was up, and at that moment he would have faced Val- 
darno sword in hand, and might have proved himself no 
mean adversary, so great is the power of anger to revive 
in the most decrepit the energies of youth. He believed 
in his wife with a rare sincerity, and his blood boiled at 
the idea of her being rudely spoken of as the cause of a 
scandalous quarrel, however much Valdarno insisted upon 
it that she was as indifferent to Giovanni as to Del 
Ferice. The story was a shallow invention upon the 
face of it. But though the old man told himself so 
again and again as he almost ran through the narrow 
streets towards his house, there was one thought sug- 
gested by Valdarno which rankled deep. It was true 
that Giovanni had last been seen in the Astrardente 
box at the opera ; but he had not remained five minutes 
seated by the Duchessa before he had suddenly invented 
a shallow excuse for leaving ; and finally, there was no 
doubt that at that very moment Corona had seemed vio- 
lently agitated. Giovanni had not reappeared till the 
night of the Frangipani ball, and the duel had taken 
place on the very next morning. Astrardente could not 
reason — his mind was too much disturbed by his anger 
against Valdarno ; but a vague impression that there was 
something wrong in it all, drove him homewards in wild 
excitement. He was ill, too, and had he been in a frame 
of mind to reflect upon himself, he would have noticed 
that his heart was beating with ominous irregularity. 
He did not even think of taking a cab, but hurried along 


SARACINESCA. 


201 


on foot, finding, perhaps, a momentary relief in violent 
exertion. The old blood rushed to his face in good 
earnest, and shamed the delicately painted lights and 
shadows touched in by the master-hand of Monsieur 
Isidore, the cosmopolitan valet. 

Valdarno remained seated in the cafe, rather disturbed 
at what he had done. He certainly had had no intention 
of raising such a storm; he was a weak and good-natured 
fellow, whose vanity was easily wounded, but who was not 
otherwise very sensitive, and was certainly not very intel- 
ligent. Astrardente had laughed at him and his friends 
in a way which touched him to the quick, and with child- 
ish petulance he had retaliated in the easiest way which 
presented itself. Indeed there was more foundation for 
his tale than Astrardente would allow. At least it was 
true that the story was in the mouths of all the gossips 
that morning, and Valdarno had only repeated what he 
had heard. He had meant to annoy the old man ; he 
had certainly not intended to make him so furiously an- 
gry. As for the deliberate insult he had received, it was 
undoubtedly very shocking to be told that one lied in 
such very plain terms; but on the other hand, to demand 
satisfaction of such an old wreck as Astrardente would 
be ridiculous in the extreme. Valdarno was incapable of 
very violent passion, and was easily persuaded that he 
was in the wrong when any one contradicted him flatly ; 
not that he was altogether devoid of a certain physical 
courage if hard pushed, but because he was not very 
strong, not very confident of himself, not very combative, 
and not very truthful. When Astrardente was gone, he 
waited a few minutes, and then sauntered up the Corso 
again towards the club, debating in his mind how he 
should turn a good story out of his morning’s adventure 
without making himself appear either foolish or pusillan- 
imous. It was also necessary so to turn his narrative that 
in case any one repeated it to Giovanni, the latter might 
not propose to cut his throat, though it was not prob- 
able that any one would be bold enough to desire a con- 


202 


SARACINESCA. 


versation with the younger Saracinesca on such a sub- 
ject. 

When he again entered the smoking-room of the club, 
he was greeted by a chorus of inquiries concerning his 
interview with Astrardente. 

“ What did he ask ? What did he say ? Where is he ? 
What did you tell him ? Did he drop his eyeglass ? Did 
he blush through his paint ? ” 

Everybody spoke together in the same breath. Val- 
darno’s vanity rose to the occasion. Weak and insignifi- 
cant by nature, he particularly delighted in being the 
centre of general interest, if even for a moment only. 

“ He really dropped his eyeglass/’ he answered, with 
a gay laugh, “ and he really changed colour in spite of 
his paint.” 

“It must have been a terrible interview, then,” re- 
marked one or two of the loungers. 

“ I shall be happy to offer you my services in case you 
wish to cut each other’s throats,” said a French officer of 
the Papal Zouaves who stood by the fireplace rolling a 
cigarette. Whereupon everybody laughed loudly. 

“ Thanks,” answered Valdarno ; “I am expecting a chal- 
lenge every minute. If he proposes a powder-puff and a 
box of rouge for the weapons, I accept without hesitation. 
Well, it was very amusing. He wanted to know all about 
it, and so I told him about the scene in Casa Frangipani. 
He did not seem to understand at all. He is a very 
obtuse old gentleman.” 

“ I hope you explained the connection of events,” said 
some one. 

“ Indeed I did. It was delightful to witness his fury. 
It was then that he dropped his eyeglass and turned as 
red as a boiled lobster. He swore that his wife was 
above suspicion, as usual.” 

“ That is true,” said a young man who had attempted 
to make love to Corona during the previous year. 

“ Of course it is true,” echoed all the rest, with una- 
nimity rare indeed where a woman’s reputation is con- 
cerned. 


SARACINESCA. 


203 


“ Yes,” continued Valdarno, “ of course. But he goes 
so far as to say it is absurd that any one should admire 
his wife, who is nevertheless a most admirable woman. 
He stamped, he screamed, he turned red in the face, and 
he went off without taking leave of me, flourishing his 
stick, and swearing eternal hatred and vengeance against 
the entire civilised society of the world. He was delight- 
fully amusing. Will anybody play baccarat ? I will 
start a bank.” 

The majority were for the game, and in a few minutes 
were seated at a large green table, drawing cards and bet- 
ting with a good will, and interspersing their play with 
stray remarks on the events of the morning. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Corona was fast coming to a state of mind in which a 
kind of passive expectation — a sort of blind submission to 
fate — was the chief feature. She had shed tears when her 
husband spoke of his approaching end, because her gentle 
heart was grateful to him, and by its own sacrifices had 
grown used to his presence, and because she suddenly felt 
that she had comprehended the depth of his love for her, 
as she had never understood it before. In the five years 
of married life she had spent with him, she had not allowed 
herself to think of his selfishness, of his small daily ego- 
tism ; for, though it was at no great expense to himself, he 
had been uniformly generous and considerate to her. But 
she had been conscious that if she should ever remove from 
her conscience the pressure of a self-imposed censorship, so 
that her judgment might speak boldly, the verdict of her 
heart would not have been so indulgent to her husband as 
was that formal opinion of him which she forced herself to 
hold. Now, however, it seemed as though the best things 
she had desired to believe of him were true ; and with the 


204 


SARACINESCA. 


conviction that he was not only not selfish, but absolutely 
devoted to herself, there had come upon her a fear of deso- 
lation, a dread of being left alone — of finding herself aban- 
doned by this strange companion, the only person in the 
world with whom she had the habit of familiarity and the 
bond of a common past. Astrardente had thought, and had 
told her too, that the knowledge of his impending death 
might lighten her burden — might make the days of self- 
sacrifice that yet remained seem shorter ; he had spoken 
kindly of her marrying again when he should be dead, 
deeming perhaps, in his sudden burst of generosity that 
she would be capable of looking beyond the unhappy pres- 
ent to the possibilities of a more brilliant future, or at least 
that the certainty of his consent to such a second union 
would momentarily please her. It was hard to say why he 
had spoken. It had been an impulse such as the most self- 
ish people sometimes yield to when their failing strength 
brings upon them suddenly the sense of their inability to 
resist any longer the course of events. The vanity of man 
is so amazing that when he is past arrogating to himself 
the attention which is necessary to him as his daily bread, 
he is capable of so demeaning his manhood as to excite in- 
terest in his weaknesses rather than that he should cease 
to be the object of any interest whatever. The analysis 
of the feelings of old and selfish persons is the most diffi- 
cult of all studies ; for in proportion as the strength of the 
dominant passion or passions is quenched in the bitter still 
waters of the harbour of superannuation, the small influ- 
ences of life grow in importance. As when, from the 
breaking surge of an angry ocean, the water is dashed high 
among the re-echoing rocks, leaving little pools of limpid 
clearness in the hollows of the storm-beaten cliffs ; and as 
when the anger of the tossing waves has subsided, the hot 
sun shines upon the mimic seas, and the clear waters that 
were so transparent grow thick and foul with the motion 
of a tiny and insignificant insect-life undreamed of before 
in such crystal purity : so also the clear strong sea of youth 
is left to dry in the pools and puddles of old age, and in 


SARACINESCA. 


205 


the motionless calm of the still places where the ocean of 
life has washed it, it is dried up and consumed by myriads 
of tiny parasites — lives within lives, passions within pas- 
sions — tiny efforts at mimic greatness, — a restless little 
world, the very parody and infinitesimal reproduction of 
the mighty flood whence it came, wherein great monsters 
have their being, and things of unspeakable beauty grow 
free in the large depths of an unfathomed ocean. 

To Corona d’Astrardente in the freshness of her youth 
the study of her husband’s strange littleness had grown 
to be a second nature from the habit of her devotion to 
him. But she could not understand him ; she could not 
explain to herself the sudden confession of old age, the 
quiet anticipation of death, the inexplicable generosity 
towards herself. She only knew that he must be at 
heart a man more kindly and of better impulse than he 
had generally been considered, and she resolved to do 
her utmost to repay him, and to soothe the misery of his 
last years. 

Since he had told her so plainly, it must be true. It 
was natural, perhaps — for he was growing more feeble 
every day — but it was very sad. Five years ago, when 
she had choked down her loathing for the old man to 
whom she had sold herself for her father’s sake, she 
would not have believed that she should one day feel the 
tears rise fast at the thought of his dying and leaving 
her free. He had said it ; she would be free. They say 
that men who have been long confined in a dungeon 
become indifferent, and when turned out upon the world 
would at first gladly return to their prison walls. Liberty 
is in the first place an instinct, but it will easily grow to 
be a habit. Corona had renounced all thought of freedom 
five years ago, and in the patient bowing of her noble na- 
ture to the path she had chosen, she had attained to a state 
of renunciation like that of a man who has buried himself 
for ever in an order of Trappists, and neither dreams of 
the freedom of the outer world, nor desires to dream of 
it. And she had grown fond of the aged dandy and his 


206 


SARACINESCA. 


foolish ways — ways which seemed foolish because they 
were those of youth grafted upon senility. She had not 
known that she was fond of him, it is true ; but now that 
he spoke of dying, she felt that she would weep his loss. 
He was her only companion, her only friend. In the 
loyal determination to be faithful to him, she had so shut 
herself from all intimacy with the world that she had 
not a friend. She kept women at a distance from her, 
instinctively dreading lest in their careless talk some 
hint or comment should remind her that she had mar- 
ried a man ridiculous in their eyes ; and with men she 
could have but little intercourse, for their society was 
dangerous. No man save Giovanni Saracinesca had for 
years put himself in the light of a mere acquaintance, 
always ready to talk to her upon general subjects, studi- 
ously avoiding himself in all discussions, and delicately 
flattering her vanity by his deference to her judgment. 
The other men had generally spoken of love at the sec- 
ond meeting, and declared themselves devoted to her for 
life at the end of a week : she had quietly repulsed them, 
and they had dropped back into the position of indifferent 
acquaintances, going in search of other game, after the 
manner of young gentlemen of leisure. Giovanni alone 
had sternly maintained his air of calmness, had never 
offended her simple pride of loyalty to Astrardente by 
word or deed ; so that, although she felt and dreaded her 
growing interest in him, she had actually believed that 
he was nothing in her life, until at last she had been un- 
deceived and awakened to the knowledge of his fierce pas- 
sion, and being taken unawares, had nearly been carried 
off her feet by the tempest his words had roused in her 
own breast. But her strength had not utterly deserted 
her. Years of supreme devotion to the right, of honest 
and unwavering loyalty, neither deceiving her conscience 
on the one hand with the morbid food of a fictitious re- 
ligious exaltation, nor, upon the other, sinking to a cynical 
indifference to inevitable misery ; days of quiet and con- 
stant effort $ long hours of thoughtful meditation upon 


SARACINESCA. 


207 


the one resolution of her life, — all this had strengthened 
the natural force of her character, so that, when at last 
the great trial had come, she had not yielded, but had 
conquered once and for ever, in the very moment of 
sorest temptation. And with her there would be no re- 
turn of the danger. Having found strength to resist, 
she knew that there would be no more weakness ; her 
love for Giovanni was deep and sincere, but it had be- 
come now the chief cause of suffering in her life; it had 
utterly ceased to be the chief element of joy, as it had 
been for a few short days. It was one thing more to be 
borne, and it outweighed all other cares. 

The news of the duel had given her great distress. 
She believed honestly that she was in no way concerned 
in it, and she had bitterly resented old Saracinesca’s im- 
putation. In the hot words that had passed between 
them, she had felt her anger rise justly against the old 
Prince ; but when he appealed to her on account of his 
son, her love for Giovanni had vanquished her wrath 
against the old man. Come what might, she would do 
what was best for him. If possible, she would induce 
him to leave Pome at once, and thus free herself from the 
pain of constantly meeting him. Perhaps she could make 
him marry — anything would be better than to allow 
things to go on in their present course, to have to 
face him at every turn, and to know that at any moment 
he might be quarrelling with somebody and fighting 
duels on her account. 

She went boldly into the world that night, not know- 
ing whether she should meet Giovanni or not, but re- 
solved upon her course if he appeared. Many people 
looked curiously at her, and smiled cunningly as they 
thought they detected traces of care upon her proud face ; 
but though they studied her, and lost no opportunity of 
talking to her upon the one topic which absorbed the 
general conversation, no one had the satisfaction of mov- 
ing her even so much as to blush a little, or to lower the 
gaze of her eyes that looked them all indifferently 
through and through. 


208 


SARACINESCA. 


Giovanni, however, did not appear, and people told her 
he would not leave his room for several days, so that she 
returned to her home without having accomplished any- . 
thing in the matter. Her husband was very silent, but 
looked at her with an expression of uncertainty, as though 
hesitating to speak to her upon some subject that absorbed 
his interest. Neither of them referred to the strange 
interview of the previous night. They went home early, 
as has been already recorded, seeing it was only a great 
and formal reception to which the world went that night; 
and even the toughest old society jades were weary from 
the ball of the day before, which had not broken up until 
half-past six in the morning. 

On the next day, at about twelve o’clock, Corona was 
sitting in her boudoir writing a number of invitations 
which v r ere to be distributed in the afternoon, when the 
door opened and her husband entered the room. 

“ My dear,” he cried in great excitement, “ it is per- 
fectly horrible ! Have you heard ? ” 

“ What ? ” asked Corona, laying down her pen. 

“ Spicca has killed Casal verde — the man who seconded 

Del Ferice yesterday, — killed him on the spot ” 

Corona uttered an exclamation of horror. 

“And they say Del Ferice is dead, or just dying” — 
his cracked voice rose at every word ; “ and they say,” he 
almost screamed, laying his withered hand roughly upon 
his wife’s shoulder, — “ they say that the duel was about 
you — you, do you understand ? ” 

“ That is not true,” said Corona, firmly. “ Calm your- 
self — I beseech you to be calm. Tell me connectedly 
what has happened — who told you this story.” 

“ What right has any man to drag your name into a 
quarrel ? ” cried the old man, hoarsely. “ Everybody is 

saying it — it is outrageous, abominable ” 

Corona quietly pushed her husband into a chair, and 
sat down beside him. 

“ You are excited — you will harm yourself, — remember 
your health,” she said, endeavouring to soothe him. 


SARACINESCA. 209 

“Tell me, in the first place, who told you that it was 
about me.” 

“Yaldarno told me; he told me that every one was 
saying it — that it was the talk of the town.” 

“ But why ? ” insisted Corona. “ You allow yourself 
to be furious for the sake of a piece of gossip which has 
no foundation whatever. What is the story they tell ? ” 

“ Some nonsense about Giovanni Saracinesca’s going 
away last week. Del Ferice proposed to call him before 
you, and Giovanni was angry.” 

“ That is absurd,” said Corona. “ Don Giovanni was 
not the least annoyed. He was with me afterwards ” 

“ Always Giovanni ! Always Giovanni ! Wherever 
you go, it is Giovanni ! ” cried the old man, in unreason- 
able petulance — unreasonable from his point of view, 
reasonable enough had he known the truth. But he 
struck unconsciously upon the key-note of all Corona’s 
troubles, and she turned pale to the lips. 

“You say it is not true,” he began again. “How do 
you know? How can you tell what may have been 
said ? How can you guess it ? Giovanni Saracinesca is 
about you in society more than any one. He has quar- 
relled about you, and two men have lost their lives in 
consequence. He is in love with you, I tell you. Can 
you not see it? You must be blind ! ” 

Corona leaned back in her chair, utterly overcome by 
the suddenness of the situation, unable to answer, her 
hands folded tightly together, her pale lips compressed. 
Angry at her silence, old Astrardente continued, his rage 
gradually getting the mastery of his sense, and his pas- 
sion working itself up to the pitch of madness. 

“ Blind — yes — positively blind ! ” he cried. “ Do you 
think that I am blind too ? Do you think I will overlook 
all this ? Do you not see that your reputation is injured 
— that people associate your name with his — that no 
woman can be mentioned in the same breath with Gio- 
vanni Saracinesca and hope to maintain a fair fame ? A 
fellow whose adventures are in everybody’s mouth, whose 

N 


210 


SARACINESCA. 


doings are notorious ; who has but to look at a woman to 

destroy her ; who is a duellist, a libertine ” 

“ That is not true/’ interrupted Corona, unable to listen 
calmly to the abuse thus heaped upon the man she so 

dearly loved. “You are mad ” 

“You defend him!” screamed Astrardente, leaning far 
forward in his chair and clenching his hands. “You dare 
to support him — you acknowledge that you care for him ! 
Does he not pursue you everywhere, so that the town rings 
with it ? You ought to long to be rid of him, to wish he 
were dead, rather than allow his name to be breathed with 
yours ; and instead, you defend him to me — you say he is 
right, that you prefer his odious devotion to your good 
name, to my good name ! . Oh, it is not to be believed ! 
If you loved him yourself you could not do worse ! ” 

“ If half you say were true ” said Corona, in terri- 

ble distress. 

“ True ? ” cried Astrardente, who would not brook in- 
terruption. “It is all true — and more also. It is true 
that he loves you, true that all the world says it, true — 
by all that is holy, from your face I would almost believe 
that you do love him ! Why do you not deny it ? Mis- 
erable woman ! ” he screamed, springing towards her and 
seizing her roughly by the arm, as she hid her face in her 

hands. “ Miserable woman ! you have betrayed me ” 

In the paroxysm of his rage the feeble old man became 
almost strong; his grip tightened upon his wife’s wrist, 
and he dragged her violently from her seat. 

“Betrayed! And by you!” he cried again, shaking 
with passion. “ You whom I have loved ! This is your 
gratitude, your sanctified devotion, your cunning pre- 
tence at patience ! All to hide your love for such a man 

as that ! You hypocrite, you ” 

By a sudden effort Corona shook off his grasp, and 
drew herself up to her full height in magnificent anger. 

“You shall hear me,” she said, in deep commanding 
tones. “ I have deserved much, but I have not deserved 
this.” 


S ARACINESCA . 


211 


“Ha!” he hissed, standing back from her a step, “you 
can speak now — I have touched you ! You have found 
words. It was time ! ” 

Corona was as white as death, and her black eyes shone 
like coals of fire. Her words came slowly, every accent 
clear and strong with concentrated passion. 

“I have not betrayed you. I have spoken no word of 
love 'to any man alive, and you know that I speak the 
truth. If any one has said to me what should not be said, 
I have rebuked him to silence. You know, while you 
accuse me, that I have done my best to honour and love 
you; yon know well that I would die by my own hand, 
your loyal and true wife, rather than let my lips utter one 
syllable of love for any other man” 

Corona possessed a supreme power over her husband. 
She was so true a woman that the truth blazed visibly 
from her clear eyes ; and what she said was nothing but 
the truth. She had doubted it herself for one dreadful 
moment; she knew it now beyond all doubting. In a 
moment the old man’s wrath broke and vanished before 
the strong assertion of her perfect innocence. He turned 
pale under his paint, and his limbs trembled. He made 
a step forward, and fell upon diis knees before her, and 
tried to take her hands. 

“Oh, Corona, forgive me,” he moaned — “forgive me ! I 
so love you ! ” 

Suddenly his grasp relaxed from her hands, and with a 
groan he fell forward against her knees. 

“ God kno\ys I forgive you ! ” cried Corona, the tears 
starting to her eyes in sudden pity. She bent down to 
support him ; but as she moved, he fell prostrate upon his 
face before her. With a cry of terror she kneeled beside 
him ; with her strong arms she turned his body and raised 
his head upon her knees. His face was ghastly white, 
save where the tinges of paint made a hideous mockery 
of colour upon his livid skin. His parted lips were 
faintly purple, and his hollow eyes stared wide open at 
his wife’s face, while the curled wig was thrust far back 
upon his bald and wrinkled forehead. 


212 


SARACINESCA. 


Corona supported his weight upon one knee, and took 
his nerveless hand , in hers. An agony of terror seized 
her. 

“ Onofrio ! ” she cried — she rarely called him by his 
name — “ Onofrio ! speak to me ! My husband ! ” She 
clasped him wildly in her arms. “0 God, have mercy !” 

Onofrio d’Astrardente was dead. The poor old dandy, 
in his paint and his wig and his padding, had died at his 
wife’s feet, protesting his love for her to the last. The 
long averted blow had fallen. For years he had guarded 
himself against sudden emotions, for he was warned of 
the disease at his heart, and knew his danger ; but his 
anger had killed him. He might have lived another 
hour while his rage lasted ; but the revulsion of feeling, 
the sudden repentance for the violence he had done 
his wife, had sent the blood back to its source too 
quickly, and with his last cry of love upon his lips he 
was dead. 

Corona had hardly ever seen death. She gently lowered 
the dead man’s weight till he lay at full length upon the 
floor. Then she started to her feet, and drew back against 
the fireplace, and gazed at the body of her husband. 

For fully five minutes. she stood motionless, scarcely 
daring to draw breath, dazed and stupefied with horror, 
trying to realise what had happened. There he lay, her 
only friend, the companion of her life since she had 
known life ; the man who in that very room, but two 
nights since, had spoken such kind words to her that her 
tears had flowed — the tears that would not flow now ; the 
man who but a moment since was railing at her in a 
paroxysm of rage — whose anger had melted at her first 
word of defence, who had fallen at her feet to ask for- 
giveness, and to declare once more, for the last time, that 
he loved her ! Her friend, her companion, her husband 
— had he heard her answer, that she forgave him freely ? 
He could not be dead — it was impossible. A moment 
ago he had been speaking to her. She went forward 
again and kneeled beside him. 


SARACINESCA. * 213 

“ Onofrio,” she said very gently, “ you are not dead — • 
you heard me ? ” 

She gazed down for a moment at the motionless features. 
Womanly thoughtful, she moved his head a little, and 
straightened the wig upon his poor forehead. Then, in 
an instant, she realised all, and with a wild cry of de- 
spair fell prostrate upon his body in an agony of passion- 
ate weeping. How long she lay, she knew not. A knock 
at the door did not reach her ears, nor another and another, 
at short intervals ; and then some one entered. It was 
the butler, who had come to announce the mid-day break- 
fast. He uttered an exclamation and started back, hold- 
ing the handle of the door in his hand. 

Corona raised herself slowly to her knees, gazing down 
once more upon the dead man’s face. Then she lifted 
her streaming eyes and saw the servant. 

“ Your master is dead,” she said, solemnly. 

The man grew pale and trembled, hesitated, and then 
turned and fled down the hall without, after the manner 
of Italian servants, who fear death, and even the sight of 
it, as they fear nothing else in the world. 

Corona rose to her feet and brushed the tears from her 
eyes. Then she turned and rang the bell. Ho one an- 
swered the summons for some time. The news had spread 
all over the house in an instant, and everything was dis- 
organised. At last a woman came and stood timidly at 
the door. She was a lower servant, a simple strong crea- 
ture from the mountains. Seeing the others terrified and 
paralysed, it had struck her common-sense that her mis- 
tress was alone. Corona understood. 

“ Help me to carry him,” she said, quietly ; and the 
peasant and the noble lady stooped and lifted the dead 
duke, and bore him to his chamber without a word, and 
laid him tenderly upon his bed. 

“ Send for the doctor,” said Corona ; “ I will watch 
beside him.” 

“ But, Excellency, are you not afraid ? ” asked the 
woman. 


214 


SAHACINESCA. 


•# 


Corona’s lip curled a little. 

“ I am not afraid,” she answered. “ Send at once.” 
When the woman was gone, she sat down by the bedside 
and waited. Her tears were dry now, but she could not 
think. She waited motionless for an hour. Then the old 
physician entered softly, while a crowd of servants stood 
without, peering timidly through the open door. Corona 
crossed the room and quietly shut it. The physician 
stood by the bedside. 

“It is simple enough, Signora Duchessa,” he said, 
gently. “ He is quite dead. It was only the day before 
yesterday that I warned him that the heart disease was 
worse. Can you tell me how it happened ? ” 

“Yes, exactly,” answered Corona, in a low voice. She 
was calm enough now. “ He came into my room two 
hours ago, and suddenly, in conversation, he became very 
angry. Then his anger subsided in a moment, and he 
fell at my feet.” 

“It is just as I expected,” answered the physician, 
quietly. “ They always die in this way. I entreat you 
to be calm — to consider that all men are mortal ” 

“ I am calm now,” interrupted Corona. “I am alone. 
Will you see that what is necessary is done quickly ? I 
will leave you for a moment. There are people outside.” 

-As she opened the door the gaping crowd of servants 
slunk out of her way. With bent head she passed be- 
tween them, and went out into the great reception-rooms, 
and sat down alone in her grief. 

It was genuine, of its kind. The poor man’s soul might 
rest in peace, for she felt the real sorrow at his death 
which he had longed for, which he had perhaps scarcely 
dared to hope she would feel. Had it not been real, in 
those first moments some thought would have crossed her 
mind — some faint, repressed satisfaction at being free at 
last — free to marry Giovanni Saracinesca. But it was 
not so. She did not feel free — she felt alone, intensely 
alone. She longed for the familiar sound of his queru- 
lous voice — for the expression of his thousand little 


SARACINESCA. 


215 


wants and interests; she remembered tenderly his harm- 
less little vanities. She thought of his wig, and she 
wept. So true it is that what is most ridiculous in life 
is most sorrowfully pathetic in death. There was not 
one of the small things about him she did not recall with 
a pang of regret. It was all over now. His vanity was 
dead with him ; his tender love for her was dead too. It 
was the only love she had known, until that other love — 
that dark and stirring passion — had been roused in her. 
But that did not trouble her now. Perhaps the uncon- 
scious sense that henceforth she was free to love whom 
she pleased had suddenly made insignificant a feeling 
which had before borne in her mind the terrible name of 
crime. The struggle for loyalty was no more, but the 
memory of what she had borne for the dead man made 
him dearer than before. The follies of his life had been 
many, but many of them had been for her, and there was 
the true ring in his last words. “ To be young for your 
sake, Corona — for your sake ! ” The phrase echoed again 
and again in her remembrance, and her silent tears flowed 
afresh. The follies of his life had been many, but to 
her he had been true. The very violence of his last 
moments, the tenderness of his passionate appeal for 
forgiveness, spoke for the honesty of his heart, even 
though his heart had never been honest before. 

She needed never to think again of pleasing him, of 
helping him, of foregoing for his sake any intimacy with 
the world which she might desire. But the thought 
brought no relief. He had become so much a part of her 
life that she could not conceive of living without him, 
and she would miss him at every turn; The new exist- 
ence before her seemed dismal and empty beyond all ex- 
pression. She wondered vaguely what she should do 
with her time. Por one moment a strange longing came 
over her to return to the dear old convent, to lay aside 
for ever her coronet and state, and in a simple garb to do 
simple and good things to the honour of God. 

She roused herself at last, and went to her own rooms, 


216 


SARACINESCA. 


dragging her steps slowly as though weighed down by a 
heavy burden. She entered the room where he had died, 
and a cold shudder passed over her. The afternoon sun 
was streaming through the window upon the writing- 
table where yet lay the unfinished invitation she had 
been writing, and upon the plants and the rich orna- 
ments, upon the heavy carpet — the very spot where he 
had breathed his last word of love and died at her feet. 

Upon that spot Corona d’Astrardente knelt down rever- 
ently and prayed, — prayed that she might be forgiven 
for all her shortcomings to the dear dead man ; that she 
might have strength to bear her sorrow and to honour 
his memory ; above all, that his soul might rest in peace 
and find forgiveness, and that he might know that she 
had been truly innocent — she prayed for that too, for 
she had a dreadful doubt. But surely he knew all now : 
how she had striven to be loyal, and how truly — yes, 
how truly — she mourned his death. 

At last she rose to her feet, and lingered still a moment, 
her hands clasped as they had been in her prayer. 
Glancing down, something glistened on the carpet. She 
stooped and picked it up. It was her husband’s seal- 
ring, engraven with the ancient arms of the Astrardente. 
She looked long at the jewel, and then put it upon her 
finger. 

“ God give me grace to honour his memory as he would 
have me honour it,” she said, solemnly. 

Truly, she had deserved the love the * poor old dandy 
had so deeply felt for her. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

That night Giovanni insisted on going out. His 
wounds no longer pained him, he said ; there was no 
danger whatever, and he was tired of staying at home. 
But he would dine with his father as usual. He loved 


SARACINESCA. 


217 


his father’s company, and when the two omitted to quar- 
rel over trifles they were very congenial. To tell the 
truth, the differences between them arose generally from 
the petulant quickness of the Prince ; for in his son his 
own irascible character was joined with the melancholy 
gravity which Giovanni inherited from his mother, and 
in virtue of which, being taciturn, he was sometimes 
thought long-suffering. 

As usual, they sat opposite each other, and the ancient 
butler Pasquale served them. As the man deposited 
Giovanni’s soup before him, he spoke. A certain liberty 
was always granted to Pasquale ; Italian servants are 
members of the family, even in princely houses. Never 
assuming that confidence implies familiarity, they enjoy 
the one without ever approaching the latter. Neverthe- 
less it was very rarely that Pasquale spoke to his masters 
when they were at table. 

“I beg your Excellencies’ pardon ” he began, as 

he put down the soup-plate. 

“Well, Pasquale?” asked old Saracinesca, looking 
sharply at the old servant from under his heavy brows. 

“ Have your Excellencies heard the news ? ” 

“ What news ? No,” returned the Prince. 

“ The Duca d’Astrardente ” 

“ Well, what of him ? ” 

“Is dead.” 

“ Dead ! ” repeated Giovanni in a loud voice, that 
echoed to the vaulted roof of the dining-room. 

“It is not true,” said old Saracinesca; “I saw him in 
the street this morning.” 

“Nevertheless, your Excellency,” replied Pasquale, 
“it is quite true. The gates of the palace were already 
draped with black before the Ave Maria this evening ; 
and the porter, who is a nephew of mine, had cr&pe upon 
his hat and arm. He told me that the Duca fell down 
dead of a stroke in the Signora Duchessa’s room at half- 
past twelve to-day.” 

“ Is that all you could learn ? ” asked the Prince. 


218 


SARACINESCA. 


“ Except that the Signora Duchessa was overcome with 
grief/’ returned the servant, gravely. 

“ I should think so — her husband dead of an apoplexy ! 
It is natural/’ said the Prince, looking at Giovanni. The 
latter was silent, and tried to eat as though nothing had 
happened — inwardly endeavouring not to rejoice too 
madly at the terrible catastrophe. In his effort to con- 
trol his features, the blood rushed to his forehead, and 
his hand trembled violently. His father saw it, but 
made no remark. 

“ Poor Astrardente ! ” he said. “ He was not so bad as 
people thought him.” 

“ Ho,” replied Giovanni, with a great effort ; “ he was 
a very good man.” 

“ I should hardly say that,” returned his father, with 
a grim smile of amusement. “ I do not think that by 
the greatest stretch of indulgence he could be called 
good.” 

“ And why not ? ” asked the younger man, sharply 
snatching at any possible discussion in order to conceal 
his embarrassment. 

“ Why not, indeed ! Why, because he had a goodly 
share of original sin, to which he added others of his 
own originating but having an equal claim to originality.” 

“ I say I think he was a very good man,” repeated Gio- 
vanni, maintaining his point with an air of conviction. 

“ If that is your conception of goodness, it is no wonder 
that you have not attained to sanctity/-’ said the old man, 
with a sneer. 

“ It pleases you to be witty,” answered his son. “ As- 
trardente did not gamble ; he had no vices of late. He 
was kind to his wife.” 

“No vices — no. He did not steal like a fraudulent 
bank-clerk, nor try to do murder like Del Eerice. He 
did not deceive his wife, nor starve her to death. He had 
therefore no vices. He was a good man.” 

“ Let us leave poor Del Ferice alone,” said Giovanni. 

“I suppose you will pity him now,” replied the Prince, 


SARACINESCA. 


219 


sarcastically. “ You will talk differently if he dies and 
you have to leave the country at a moment’s notice, like 
Spicca this morning.” 

“I should be very sorry if Del Ferice died. I should 
never recover from it. I am not a professional duellist 
like Spicca. And yet Casalverde deserved his death. I 
can quite understand that Del Ferice might in the excite- 
ment of the moment have lunged at me after the halt was 
cried, but I cannot understand how Casalverde could be 
so infamous as not to cross his sword when he himself 
called. It looked very much like a preconcerted arrange- 
ment. Casalverde deserved to die, for the safety of soci- 
ety. I should think that Rome had had enough of duelling 
for a while.” 

“ Yes ; but after all, Casalverde did not count for much. 
I am not sure I ever saw the fellow before in my life. 
And I suppose Del Ferice will recover. There was a 
story this morning that he was dead ; but I went and 
inquired myself, and found that he was better. People 
are much shocked at this second duel. Well, it could 
not be helped. Poor old Astrardente ! So we shall never 
see his wig again at every ball and theatre and supper- 
party ! There was a man who enjoyed his life to the 
very end ! ” 

“I should not call it enjoyment to be built up every 
day by one’s valet, like a card-house, merely to tumble to 
pieces again when the pins are taken out,” said Giovanni. 

“You do not seem so enthusiastic in his defence as you 
were a few minutes ago,” said the Prince, with a smile. 

Giovanni was so much disturbed at the surprising news 
that he hardly knew what he said. He made a desperate 
attempt to be sensible. 

“ It appears to me that moral goodness and personal 
appearance are two things,” he said, oracularly. The 
Prince burst into a loud laugh. 

“Most people w^ould say that ! Eat your dinner, Gio- 
vanni, and do not talk such arrant nonsense.” 

“ Why is it nonsense ? Because you do not agree with 
me ? ” 


220 


SARACINESCA. 


“ Because you are too much excited to talk sensibly,” 
said his father. “ Do you think I cannot see it ? ” 

Giovanni was silent for a time. He was angry at his 
father for detecting the cause of his vagueness, but he 
supposed there was no help for it. At last Pasquale left 
the room. Old Saracinesca gave a sigh of relief. 

“And now, Giovannino,” he said familiarly, “what 
have you got to say for yourself ? ”. 

“ I ? ” asked his son, in some surprise. 

“ You ! What are you going to do ? ” 

“ I will stay at home,” said Giovanni, shortly. 

“That is not the question. You are wise to stay at 
home, because you ought to get yourself healed of that 
scratch. Giovanni, the Astrardente is now a widow.” 

“ Seeing that her husband is dead — of course. There 
is vast ingenuity in your deduction,” returned the younger 
man, eyeing his father suspiciously. . 

“ Do not be an idiot, Giovannino. I mean, that as she 
is a widow, I have no objection to your marrying her.” 

“Good God, sir!” cried Giovanni, “what do you 
mean ? ” 

“What I say. She is the most beautiful woman in 
Rome. She is one of the best women I know. She will 
have a sufficient jointure. Marry her. You will never 
be happy with a silly little girl just out of a convent. 
You are not that sort of man. The Astrardente is not 
three-and-twenty, but she has had five years of the 
world, and she has stood the test well. I shall be proud 
to call her my daughter.” 

In his excitement Giovanni sprang from his seat, and 
rushing to his father’s side, threw his arms round his 
neck and embraced him. He had never done such a 
thing in his life. Then he remained standing, and grew 
suddenly thoughtful. 

“It is heartless of us to talk in this way,” he said. 
“ The poor man is not buried yet.” 

“ My dear boy,” said the old Prince, “ Astrardente is 
dead. He hated me, and was beginning to hate you, I 


SARACINESCA. 


221 


fancy. We were neither of us his friends, at any rate. 
We do not rejoice at his death; we merely regard it in 
the light of an event which modifies our immediate fu- 
ture. He is dead, and his wife is free. So long as he 
was alive, the fact of your loving her was exceedingly 
unfortunate : it was injuring you and doing a wrong to 
her. Now, on the contrary, the greatest good fortune 
that can happen to you both is that you should marry 
each other.” 

“ That is true,” returned Giovanni. In the suddenness 
of the news, it had not struck him that his father would 
ever look favourably upon the match, although the imme- 
diate possibility of the marriage had burst upon him as a 
great light suddenly rising in a thick darkness. But his 
nature, as strong as his father’s, was a little more deli- 
cate, a shade less rough ; and even in the midst of his 
great joy, it struck him as heartless to be discussing the 
chances of marrying a woman whose husband was not yet 
buried. No such scruple disturbed the geniality of the 
old Prince. He was an honest and straightforward man 
— a man easily possessed by a single idea — and he was 
capable of profound affections. He had loved his Span- 
ish wife strongly in his own fashion, and she had loved 
him ; but there was no one left to him now but his son, 
whom he delighted in, and he regarded the rest of the 
world merely as pawns to be moved into position for the 
honour and glory of the Saracinesca. He thought no more 
of a man’s life than of the end of a cigar, smoked out 
and fit to be thrown away. Astrardente had been noth- 
ing to him but an obstacle. It had not struck him that 
he could ever be removed ; but since it had pleased Provi- 
dence to take him out of the way, there was no earthly 
reason for mourning his death. All men must die — it 
was better that death should come to those who stood in 
the way of their fellow-creatures. 

“I am not at all sure that she will consent,” said Gio- 
vanni, beginning to walk up and down the room. 

“Bah!” ejaculated his father. “You are the best 
match in Italy. Why should any woman refuse you ? ” 


222 


SARACINESCA. 


“ I am not so sure. She is not like other women. Let 
us not talk of it now. It will not be possible to do any- 
thing for a year, I suppose. A year is a long time. 
Meanwhile I will go to that poor man’s funeral.” 

“ Of course. So will I.” 

And they both went, and found themselves in a vast 
crowd of acquaintances. No one had believed that 
Astrardente could ever die, that the day would ever 
come when society should know his place no more ; and 
with one consent everybody sent their carriages to the 
funeral, and went themselves a day or two later to the 
great requiem Mass in the parish church. There was 
nothing to be seen but the great black catafalque, with 
Corona’s household of servants in deep mourning liveries 
kneeling behind it. Relations she had none, and the 
dead man was the last of his race — she was utterly alone. 

“ She need not have made it so terribly impressive,” 
said Madame Mayer to Valdarno when the Mass was 
over. Madame Mayer paused beside the holy-water basin, 
and dipping one gloved finger, she presented it to Val- 
darno with an engaging smile. Both crossed themselves. 

“ She need not have got it up so terribly impressively, 
after all,” she repeated. 

“ I daresay she will miss him at first,” returned Val- 
darno, who was a kind-hearted fellow enough, and was 
very far from realising how much he had contributed to 
the sudden death of the old dandy. “ She is a strange 
woman. I believe she had grown fond' of him.” 

“ Oh, I know all that,” said Donna Tullia, as they left 
the church. 

“Yes,” answered her companion, with a significant 
smile, “ I presume you do.” Donna Tullia laughed harshly 
as she got into her carriage. 

“You are detestable, Valdarno — you always misunder- 
stand me. Are you going to the ball to-night ? ” 

“ Of course. May I have the pleasure of the cotillon ? ” 

“If you are very good — if you will go and ask the 
news of Del Ferice,” 


SARACIHESCA. 


223 


“ I sent this morning. He is quite out of danger, they 
believe/’ 

“ Is he ? Oh, I am very glad — I felt so very badly, 
you know. Ah, Don Giovanni, are you recovered ? ” she 
asked coldly, as Saracinesca approached the other side of 
the carriage. Yaldarno retired to a distance, and pre- 
tended to be buttoning his greatcoat ; he wanted to see 
what would happen. 

“ Thank you, yes ; I was not much hurt. This is the 
first time I have been out, and I am glad to find an 
opportunity of speaking to you. Let me say again how 
profoundly I regret my forgetfulness at the ball the other 
night ■” 

Donna Tullia was a clever woman, and though she had 
been very angry at the time, she was in love with Gio- 
vanni. She therefore looked at him suddenly with a 
gentle smile, and just for one moment her fingers touched 
his hand as it rested upon the side of the carriage. 

“ Do you think it was kind ? ” she asked, in a low 
voice. 

“ It was abominable. I shall never forgive myself,” 
answered Giovanni. 

“ I will forgive you,” answered Donna Tullia, softly. 
She really loved him. It was the best thing in her na- 
ture, but it was more than balanced by the jealousy she 
had conceived for the Duchessa d’Astrardente. 

“ Was it on that account that you quarrelled with poor 
Del Ferice ? ” she asked, after a moment’s pause. “ I 
have feared it ” 

“ Certainly not,” answered Giovanni, quickly. “ Pray 
set your mind at rest. Del Ferice or any other man 
would have been quite justified in calling me out for it — 
but it was not for that. It was not on account of you.” 

It would have been hard to say whether Donna Tullia’s 
face expressed more clearly her surprise or her disap- 
pointment at the intelligence. Perhaps she had both 
really believed herself the cause of the duel, and had 
been flattered at the thought that men would fight for her. 


224 


SARACINESCA. 


“Oh, I am very glad — it is a great relief,” she said, 
rather coldly. “ Are you going to the ball to-night ? ” 

“ No ; I cannot dance. My right arm is bound up in 
a sling, as you see.” 

“ I am sorry you are not coming. Good-bye, then.” 

“ Good-bye ; I am very grateful for your forgiveness.” 
Giovanni bowed low, and Donna Tullia’s brilliant equi- 
page dashed away. 

Giovanni was well satisfied at having made his peace 
so easily, but he nevertheless apprehended danger from 
Donna Tullia. 

The next thing which interested Roman society was 
Astrardente’s will, but no one was much surprised when 
the terms of it were known. As there were no relations, 
everything was left to his wife. The palace in Rome, the 
town and castle in the Sabines, the broad lands in the 
low hill-country towards Ceprano, and what surprised 
even the family lawyer, a goodly sum in solid English 
securities, — a splendid fortune in all, according to Roman 
ideas. Astrardente abhorred the name of money in his 
conversation — it had been one of his affectations ; but he 
had an excellent understanding of business, and was ex- 
ceedingly methodical in the management of his affairs. 
The inheritance, the lawer thought, might be estimated 
at three millions of scudi. 

“Is all this wealth mine, then?” asked Corona, when 
the solicitor had explained the situation. 

“All, Signora Duchessa. You are enormously rich.” 

Enormously rich ! And alone in the world. Corona 
asked herself if she was the same woman, the same Corona 
del Carmine who five years before had suffered in the old 
convent the humiliation of having no pocket-money, whose 
wedding-gown had been provided from the proceeds of a 
little sale of the last relics of her father’s once splendid 
collection of old china and pictures. She had never 
thought of money since she had been married ; her hus- 
band was generous, but methodical ; she never bought any- 
thing without consulting him, and the bills all went 


SAEACINESCA. 


m 


through his hands. How and then she had rather timidly 
asked for a small sum for some charity ; £he had lacked 
nothing that money could buy, but she never remembered 
to have had more than a hundred francs in her purse. 
Astrardente had once offered to give her an allowance, 
and had seemed pleased that she refused it. He liked to 
manage things himself, being a man of detail. 

And now she was enormously rich, and alone. It was 
a strange sensation. She felt it to be so new that she 
innocently said so to the lawyer. 

“ What shall I do with it all ? ” 

“ Signora Duchessa,” returned the old man, “ with re- 
gard to money the question is, not what to do with it, but 
how to do without it. You are very young, Signora 
Duchessa.” 

“I shall be twenty-three in August,” said Corona, 
simply. 

“ Precisely. I would beg to be allowed to observe that 
by the terms of the will, and by the laws of this country, 
you are not the dowager-duchess, but you are in your own 
right and person the sole and only feudal mistress and 
holder of the title.” 

“Ami? ” 

“ Certainly, with all the privileges thereto attached. It 
may be — I beg pardon for being so bold as to suggest it — 
it may be that in years to come, when time has soothed 
your sorrow, you may wish, you may consent, to renew 
the marriage tie.” 

“ I doubt it — but the thing is possible,” said Corona, 
quietly. 

“ In that case, and should you prefer to contract a mar- 
riage of inclination, you will have no difficulty in confer- 
ring your title upon your husband, with any reservations 
you please. Your children will then inherit from you, 
and become in their turn Dukes of Astrardente. This I 
conceive to have been the purpose and spirit of the late 
Duke’s will. The estate, magnificent as it is, will not be 

too large for the foundation of a new race. If you desire 
o 


226 


SARACINESCA. 


any distinctive title, you can call yourself Duchessa del 
Carmine d’Astrardente — it would sound very well/’ re- 
marked the lawyer, contemplating the beautiful woman 
before him.” 

“It is of little importance what I call myself,” said 
Corona. “ At present I shall certainly make no change. 
It is very unlikely that I shall ever marry?” 

“ I trust. Signora Duchessa, that in any case you will 
always command my most humble services.” 

With this protestation of fidelity the lawyer left the 
Palazzo Astrardente, and Corona remained in her boudoir 
in meditation of what it would be like to be the feudal 
mistress of a great title and estate. She was very sad, 
but she was growing used to her solitude. Her liberty 
was strange to her, but little by little she was beginning 
to enjoy it. At first she had missed the constant care of 
the poor man who for five years had been her companion ; 
she had missed his presence and the burden of thinking 
for him at every turn of the day. But it was not for 
long. Her memory of him was kind and tender, and for 
months after his death the occasional sight of some object 
associated with him brought the tears to her eyes. She 
often wished he could walk into the room in his old way, 
and begin talking of the thousand and one bits of town 
gossip that interested him. But the first feeling of desola- 
tion soon passed, for he had not been more than a com- 
panion ; she could analyse every memory she had of him to 
its source and reason. There was not in her that passionate 
unformulated yearning for him that comes upon a loving 
heart when its fellow is taken away, and which alone is 
a proof that love has been real and true. She soon grew 
accustomed to his absence. 

To marry again — every one would say she would be 
right — to marry and to be the mother of children, of 
brave sons and noble girls, — ah yes ! that was a new 
thought, a wonderful thought, one of many that were 
wonderful. 

Then, again, her strong nature suddenly rose in a new 


SARACINESCA. 


227 


sense of strength, and she paced the room slowly with a 
strange expression of sternness upon her beautiful features. 

“I am a power in the world/’ she said to herself, 
almost starting at the truth of the thought, and yet 
taking delight in it. “I am what men call rich and 
powerful ; I have money, estates, castles, and palaces ; 
I am young, I am strong. What shall I do with it all ? ” 

As she walked, she dreamed of raising some great in- 
stitution of charity ; she knew not for what precise object, 
but there was room enough for charity in Rome. The 
great Torlonia had built churches, and hospitals, and asy- 
lums. She would do likewise ; she would make for her- 
self an interest in doing good, a satisfaction in the exercise 
of her power to combat evil. It would be magnificent to 
feel that she had done it herself, alone and unaided ; that 
she had built the walls from the foundation and the cor- 
ner-stone to the eaves ; that she had entered herself into 
the study of each detail, and herself peopled the great 
institution with such as needed most help in the world — 
with little children, perhaps. She would visit them every 
day, and herself provide for their wants and care for their 
sufferings. She would give the place her husband’s name, 
and the good she would accomplish with his earthly por- 
tion might perhaps profit his soul. She would go to Padre 
Filippo and ask his advice. He would know what was 
best to be done, for he knew more of the misery in Rome 
than any one, and had a greater mind to relieve it. She 
had seen him since her husband’s death, but she had not 
yet conceived this scheme. 

And Giovanni — she thought of him too ; but the habit' 
of putting him out of her heart was strong. She dimly 
fancied that in the far future a day might come when she 
would be justified in thinking of him if she so pleased ; 
but for the present, her loyalty to her dead husband seemed 
more than ever a sacred duty. She would not permit 
herself to think of Giovanni, even though, from a general 
point of view, she might contemplate the possibility of a 
second marriage. She would go to Padre Filippo and 


228 


SAKACINESCA; 


talk over everything with him ; he would advise her 
well. 

Then a wild longing seized her to leave Rome for a 
while, to breathe the air of the country, to get away from 
the scene of all her troubles, of all the terrible emotions 
that had swept over her life in the last three weeks, to 
be alone in the hills or by the sea. It seemed dreadful 
to be tied to her great house in the city, in her mourning, 
shut off suddenly from the world, and bound down by the 
chain of conventionality to a fixed method of existence. 
She would give anything to go away. Why not ? She 
suddenly realised what was so hard to understand, that 
she was free to go where she pleased — if only, by accident, 
she could chance to meet Giovanni Saracinesca before she 
left. No — the thought was unworthy. She would leave 
town at once — surely she could have nothing to say to 
Giovanni — she would leave to-morrow morning. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Corona found it impossible to leave town so soon as she 
had wished. She had indeed sent out great cart-loads of 
furniture, servants, horses, and all the paraphernalia of an 
establishment in the country, and she believed herself 
ready to move at once, when she received an exceedingly 
courteous note from Cardinal Antonelli requesting the 
honour of being received by her the next day at twelve 
o’clock. It was impossible to refuse, and to her great 
annoyance she was obliged to postpone her departure 
another twenty -four hours. She guessed that the great 
man was the bearer of some message from the Holy 
Father himself ; and in her present frame of mind, such 
words of comfort could not fail to be acceptable from one 
whom she reverenced and loved, as all who knew Pius IX. 
did sincerely revere and love him. She did not like the 


SARACINESCA. 


229 


Cardinal, it is true ; but she did not confound the ambas- 
sador with him who sent the embassy. The Cardinal was 
a most courteous and accomplished man of the world, and 
Corona could not easily have explained the aversion she 
felt for him. It is very likely that if she could have 
understood the part he was sustaining in the great Euro- 
pean struggle of those days, she would have accorded him 
at least the admiration he deserved as a statesman. He 
had his faults, and they were faults little becoming a 
cardinal of the Holy Koman Church. But few are willing 
to consider that, though a cardinal, he was not a priest — 
that he was practically a layman who, by his own unaided 
genius, had attained to great power, and that those faults 
which have been charged against him with such virulence 
would have passed, nay, actually pass, unnoticed and un- 
censured in many a great statesman of those days and of 
these. He was a brave man, who fought a desperate and 
hopeless fight to his last breath, and who fought almost 
alone — a man most bitterly hated by many, at whose death 
many rejoiced loudly and few mourned ; and to the shame 
of many be it said, that his most obstinate adversaries, 
those who unsparingly heaped abuse upon him during his 
lifetime, and most unseemingly exulted over his end, were 
the very men among whom he should have found the most 
willing supporters and the firmest friends. But in 1865 
he was feared, and those who reckoned without him in 
the game of politics reckoned badly. 

Corona was a woman, and very young. She had not 
the knowledge or the experience to understand his value, 
and she had taken a personal dislike to him when she first 
appeared in society. He was too smooth for her; she 
thought him false. She preferred a rougher type. Her 
husband, on the other hand, had a boundless admiration 
for the cardinal-statesman ; and perhaps the way in which 
Astrardente constantly tried to impress his wife with a 
sense of the great man’s virtues, indirectly contributed to 
increase her aversion. Nevertheless, when he sent word 
that he desired to be received by -her, she did not hesitate 


230 


SARACINESCA. 


a moment, but expressed her willingness at once. Punctu- 
ally as the gun of Sant Angelo roared out the news that 
the sun was on the meridian, Cardinal Antonelli entered 
Corona’s house. She received him in the great drawing- 
room. There was an air of solemnity about the meeting. 
The room itself, divested of a thousand trifles which had 
already been sent into the country, looked desolate and 
formal ; the heavy curtains admitted but little light ; there 
was no fire on the hearth ; Corona stood all in black — a 
very incarnation of mourning — as her visitor trod softly 
across the dark carpet towards her. 

The Cardinal’s expressive face was softened by a look of 
gentle sympathy, as he came forward and took her hand 
in both of his, and gazed for a moment into her beautiful 
eyes. 

“ I am an ambassador, Huchessa,” he said softly. “ I 
come to tell you how deeply our Holy Father sympathises 
in your great sorrow.” 

Corona bent her head respectfully, and motioned to the 
Cardinal to be seated. 

“ I beg that your Eminence will convey to his Holiness 
my most sincere gratitude for this expression of his pater- 
nal kindness to one so unhappy.” 

“ Indeed I will not fail to deliver your message, Duch- 
essa,” answered the Cardinal, seating himself by her side 
in one of the great arm-chairs which had been placed to- 
gether in the middle of the room. “His Holiness has 
promised to remember you in his august prayers ; and I 
also, for my own part, entreat you to believe that my 
poor sympathy is wholly with you in your distress.” 

“Your Eminence is most kind,” replied Corona, gravely. 

It seemed as though there were little more to be said 
in such a case. There was no friendship between the 
two, no bond of union or fellowship : it was simply a 
formal visit of condolence, entailed as a necessity by 
Corona’s high position. The Pope had sent her a gift at 
her wedding; he sent her a message of sympathy at her 
husband’s death. Half-a-dozen phrases would be ex- 


SARACINESCA. 


231 


changed, and the Cardinal would take his leave, accom- 
panied by a file of the Duchessa’s lackeys — and so it 
would all be over. But the Cardinal was a statesman, a 
diplomatist, and one of the best talkers in Europe; 
moreover, he never allowed an opportunity of pursuing 
his ends to pass unimproved. 

“ Ah, Duchessa ! ” he said, folding his hands upon his 
knee and looking down, “ there is but one Consoler in 
sorrow such as yours. It is vain for us mortals to talk 
of any such thing as alleviating real mental suffering. 
There are consolations — many of them — for some people, 
but they are not for you. To many the accidents of 
wealth, of youth, of beauty, seem to open the perspective 
of a brilliant future at the very moment when all the 
present appears to be shrouded in darkness ; but if you 
will permit me, who know you so little, to say it frankly, 
I do not believe that any of these things which you pos- 
sess in such plentiful abundance will lessen the measure 
of your grief. It is not right that they should, I suppose. 
It is not fitting that noble minds should even possess the 
faculty of forgetting real suffering in the unreal trifles 
of a great worldly possession, which so easily restore the 
weak to courage, and flatter the vulgar into the forgetful- 
ness of honourable sorrow. I am no moraliser, no pedan- 
tic philosopher. The stoic may have shrugged his heavy 
shoulders in sullen indifference to fate ; the epicurean 
may have found such bodily ease in his excessive refine- 
ment of moderate enjoyment as to overlook the deepest 
afflictions in anticipating the animal pleasure of the next 
meal. I cannot conceive of such men as those philoso- 
phising diners ; nor can I imagine by what arguments 
the wisest of mankind could induce a fellow-creature in 
distress to forget his sufferings. Sorrow is sorrow still 
to all finely organised natures. The capacity for feeling 
sorrow is one of the highest tests of nobility — a nobility 
of nature not found always in those of high blood and 
birth, but existing in the people, wherever the people are 
good.” 


232 


SARACINESCA. 


The Cardinal’s voice became even more gentle as he 
spoke. He was himself of very humble origin, and spoke 
feelingly. Corona listened, though she only heard half 
of what he said ; but his soft tone soothed her almost 
unconsciously. 

“ There is little consolation for me — I am quite alone,” 
she said. 

“ You are not of those who find relief in worldly great- 
ness,” continued the Cardinal. “ But I have seen women, 
young, rich, and beautiful, wear their mourning with 
wonderful composure. Youth is so much, wealth is so 
much more, beauty is such a power in the world — all 
three together are resistless. Many a young widow is 
not ashamed to think of marriage before her husband has 
been dead a month. Indeed they do not always make 
bad wives. A woman who has been married young and 
is early deprived of her husband, has great experience, 
great knowledge of the world. Many feel that they have 
no right to waste the goods given them in a life of soli- 
tary mourning. Wealth is given to be used, and perhaps 
many a rich young widow thinks she can use it more 
wisely in the company of a husband young as herself. 
It may be ; I cannot tell. These are days when power of 
any sort should be used, and perhaps no one should even 
for a moment think of withdrawing from the" scene where 
such great battles are being fought. But one may choose 
wisely a way of using power, or one may choose unwisely. 
There is much to be done.” 

“ How ? ” asked Corona, catching at his expression of 
an idea which pursued her. “Here am I, rich, alone, 
idle — above all, very unhappy. What can I do ? I wish 
I knew, for I would try and do it.” 

“ Ah ! I was not speaking of you, Duchessa,” answered 
the statesman. “ You are too noble a woman to be easily 
consoled. And yet, though you may not find relief from 
your great sorrow, there are many things within your reach 
which you might do, and feel that in your mourning you 
have done honour to your departed husband as well as to 


SARACINESCA. 


233 


yourself. You have great estates — you can improve them, 
and especially you can improve the condition of your peas- 
ants, and strengthen their loyalty to you and to the State. 
You can find many a village on your lands where a school 
might be established, an asylum built, a road opened 
— anything which shall give employment to the poor, and 
which, when finished, shall benefit their condition. Espe- 
cially about Astrardente they are very poor ; I know the 
country well. In six months you might change many 
things ; and then you might return to Home next winter. 
If it pleases you, you can do anything with society. You 
can make your house a centre for a new party — the old- 
est of all parties it is, but it would now be thought new 
here. We have no centre. There is no salon in the good 
old sense of the word — no house where all that is intelli- 
gent, all that is powerful, all that is influential, is irresist- 
ibly drawn. To make a centre of that kind would be a 
worthy object, it seems to me. You would surround your- 
self with men of genius ; you would bring those together 
who cannot meet elsewhere ; you would give a vigorous 
tone to a society which is fast falling to decay from in- 
anition ; you could become a power, a real power, not only 
in Rome, but in Europe; you could make - your house 
famous as the point from which, in Rome, all that is good 
and great should radiate to the very ends of the earth. 
You could do all this in your young widowhood, and you 
would not dishonour the memory of him you loved so 
dearly.” 

Corona looked earnestly at the Cardinal as he enlarged 
upon the possibilities of her life. What he said seemed 
true and good. It opened to her a larger field than she 
had dreamed of half an hour ago. Especially the plan 
of working for the improvement of her estates and peo- 
ple attracted her. She wanted to do something at once 
— something good, and something worth doing. 

“ I believe you are right,” she said. “ I shall die if I 
am idle.” 

“I know I am right,” returned the Cardinal, in a tone of 


234 


SARACINESCA. 


conviction. “Not that I propose all this as an unalterable 
plan for you. I would not have you think I mean to lay 
down any system, or even to advise you at all. I was 
merely thinking aloud. I am too happy if my thoughts 
please you — if anything I say can even for a moment 
relieve your mind from the pressure of this sudden grief. 
It is not consolation I offer you. I am not a priest, but 
a man of action ; and it is action I propose to you, not as 
an anodyne for sorrow, but simply because it is right that 
in these days we should all strive with a good will. Your 
peasants are many of them in an evil case : you can save 
them and make them happy, even though you find no 
happiness for yourself. Our social world here is falling 
to pieces, going astray after strange gods, and especially 
after Madame Mayer and her lares and penates, young 
Valdarno and Del Ferice : it is in your power to create a 
new life here, or at least to contribute greatly towards re- 
establishing the social balance. I say, do this thing, if 
you will, for it is a good thing to do. At all events, 
while you are building roads — and perhaps schools — at 
Astrardente, you can think over the course you will after- 
wards pursue. And now, my dear Duchessa, I have de- 
tained you far too long. Forgive me if I have wearied 
you, for I have great things at heart, and must sometimes 
speak of them though I speak feebly. Count on me 
always for any assistance you may require. Bear with 
me if I weary you, for I was a good friend of him we 
both mourn.” 

“ Thank you — you have given me good thoughts,” said 
Corona, simply. 

So the courtly Cardinal rose and took his leave, and 
once more Corona was left alone. It was a strange thing 
that, while he disclaimed all power to comfort her, and 
denied that consolation was possible in her case, she had 
nevertheless listened to him with interest, and now found 
herself thinking seriously of what he had said. He 
seemed to have put her thoughts into shape, and to have 
given direction to that sense of power she had already 


SARACINESCA. 


235 


begun to feel. For the first time in her life she felt 
something like sympathy for the Cardinal, and she lin- 
gered for some minutes alone in the great reception-room, 
wondering whether she could accomplish any of the 
things he had proposed to her. At all events, there was 
nothing now to hinder her departure ; and she thought 
with something like pleasure of the rocky Sabines, the 
solitude of the mountains, the simple faces of the people 
about her place, and of the quiet life she intended to lead 
there during the next six months. 

But the Cardinal went on his way, rolling along through 
the narrow streets in his great coach. Leaning far back 
in his cushioned seat, he could just catch a glimpse of 
the people as he passed, and his quick eyes recognised 
many, both high and low. But he did not care to show 
himself, for he felt himself disliked, and deep in his 
finely organised nature there lay a sensitiveness which 
was wounded by the popular hatred. It hurt him to see 
the lowering glances of the poor man, and to return the 
forced bow of the rich man who feared him. He often 
longed to be able to explain many things to them both, 
to the rich and to the poor; and then, knowing how 
impossible it was that he should be understood by either, 
he sighed somewhat bitterly, and hid himself still deeper 
in his carriage. Few men in the midst of the world have 
stood so wholly alone as Cardinal Antonelli. 

To-day, however, he had an appointment which he 
anticipated with a sort of interest quite new to him. 
Anastase Gouache was coming to begin his portrait, and 
Anastase Was an object of curiosity to him. It would 
have surprised the young Frenchman had he guessed how 
carefully he was watched, for he was a modest fellow, 
and did not think himself of very much importance. He 
allowed Donna Tullia and her friends to come to his 
studio whenever they pleased, and he listened to their 
shallow talk, and joined occasionally in the conversation, 
letting them believe that he sympathised with them, 
simply because his own ideas were unsettled. It was a 


236 


SARACINESCA. 


good thing for him to paint a portrait of Donna Tullia, 
for it made him the fashion, and he had small scruple in 
agreeing with her views so long as he had no fixed con- 
victions of his own. She and her set regarded him as a 
harmless boy, and looked upon his little studio as a con- 
venience, in payment whereof they pushed him into 
society, and spread abroad the rumour that he was the 
rising artist of the day. But the great Cardinal had 
seen him more than once, and had conceived a liking for 
his delicate intellectual face and unobtrusive manner. 
He had watched him and caused him to be watched, and 
his interest had increased, and finally he had taken a 
fancy to have a portrait of himself painted by the young 
fellow. This was the day appointed for the first sitting ; 
and when the Cardinal reached his lodgings, high up in 
the Vatican pile, he found Anastase Gouache waiting for 
him in the small ante-chamber. 

The prime minister was not luxuriously lodged. Four 
rooms sufficed him — to wit, the said ante-chamber, bare 
and uncarpeted, and furnished with three painted wooden 
box benches ; a comfortable study lined throughout with 
shelves and lockers, furnished with half-a-dozen large 
chairs and a single writing-table, whereon stood a crucifix 
and an inkstand; beyond this a bedroom and a small 
dining-room : that was all. The drawers of the lockers 
and bookcases contained a correspondence which would 
have astonished Europe, and a collection of gems and 
precious stones unrivalled in the world ; but there was 
nothing in the shape of ornament visible to the eye, 
unless one were to class under that head a fairly good 
bust of Pius IX., which stood upon a plain marble ped- 
estal in one corner. Gouache followed the great man 
into this study. He was surprised by the simplicity of 
the apartment ; but he felt in sympathy with it, and with 
the Cardinal himself ; and with the intuitive knowledge 
of a true artist, he foresaw that he was to paint a success- 
ful portrait. 

The Cardinal busied himself with .some papers while 
the painter silently made his preparations, 


SARACINESCA. 


23T 


“ If your Eminence is ready ? ” suggested Gouache. 

“At your service, my friend,” replied the Cardinal, 
blandly. “ How shall I sit ? The portrait inustf be taken 
in full face, I think.” 

“ By all means. Here, I think — so j the light is very 
good at this hour, but a little later we shall have the sun. 
If your Eminence will look at me — a little more to the 
left — I think that will do. I will draw it in in charcoal, 
and your Eminence can judge.” 

“ Precisely,” returned the Cardinal. “ You will paint 
the devil even blacker than he is.” 

u The devil ? ” repeated Gouache, raising his eyebrows 
with a slight smile. “ I was not aware ” 

“ And yet you have been in Rome four years ! ” 

“ I am very careful,” returned Gouache. “ I never by 
any chance hear any evil of those whom I am to paint.” 

“ You have very well-bred ears, Monsieur Gouache. I 
fear that if I had attended some of the meetings in your 
studio while Donna Tullia was having her portrait 
painted, I should have heard strange things. Have 
they all escaped you ? ” 

Gouache was silent for a moment. It did not surprise 
him to learn that the omniscient Cardinal was fully 
acquainted with the doings in his studio, but he looked 
curiously at the great man before he answered. The 
Cardinal’s small gleaming eyes met his with the fearless- 
ness of superiority. 

“ I remember nothing but good of your Eminence,” the 
painter replied at last, with a laugh ; and applying him- 
self to his work, he began to draw in the outline of the 
Cardinal’s head. The words he had just heard, implying 
as they did a thorough knowledge of the minutest details 
of social life, would have terrified Madame Mayer, and 
would perhaps have driven Del Ferice out of the Papal 
States in fear of his life. Even the good-natured and 
foolish Yaldarno might reasonably have been startled ; 
but Anastase was made of different stuff. His grand- 
father had helped to storm the Bastille, his father had 


238 


SARACINESCA. 


been among the men of 1848 ; there was revolutionary 
blood in his veins, and he distinguished between real and 
imaginary conspiracy with the unerring certainty of in- 
stinct, as the bloodhound knows the track of man from 
the slot of meaner game. He laughed at Donna Tullia, he 
distrusted Del Ferice, and to some extent he understood 
the Cardinal. And the statesman understood him, too, 
and was interested by him. 

“ You may as well forget their chatter. It does me no 
harm, and it amuses them. It does not seem to surprise 
you that I should know all about it, however. You have 
good nerves, Monsieur Gouache.” 

“ Of course your Eminence can send me out of Koine to- 
morrow, if you please,” answered Gouache, with perfect 
unconcern. “ But the portrait will not be finished so soon.” 

“No — that would be a pity. You shall stay. But 
the others — what would you advise me to do with 
them ? ” asked the Cardinal, his bright eyes twinkling 
with amusement. 

“ If by the others your Eminence means my friends,” 
replied Gouache, quietly, “ I can assure you that none of 
them will ever cause you the slightest inconvenience.” 

“ I believe you are right — their ability to annoy me is 
considerably inferior to their inclination. Is it not so ? ” 

“If your Eminence will allow me,” said Gouache, ris- 
ing suddenly and laying down his charcoal pencil, “ I will 
pin this curtain across the window. The sun is begin- 
ning to come in.” 

He had no intention of answering any questions. If 
the Cardinal knew of the meetings in the Via San Basilio, 
that was not Gouache’s fault ; Gouache would certainly 
not give any further information. The statesman had 
expected as much, and was not at all surprised at the 
young man’s silence. 

“ One of those young gentlemen seems to have met his 
match, at all events,” he remarked, presently. “I am 
sorry it should have come about in that way.” 

“ Your Eminence might easily have prevented the duel.” 


SARACINESCA. 239 

“I knew nothing about it,” answered the Cardinal, 
glancing keenly at Anastase. 

“Nor I,” said the artist, simply. 

“You see my information is not always so good as 
people imagine, my friend.” 

“It is a pity,” remarked Gouache. “It would have 
been better had poor Del Ferice been killed outright. 
The matter would have terminated there.” 

“ Whereas ” 

“Whereas Del Ferice will naturally seek an occasion 
for revenge.” 

“ You speak as though you were a friend of Don Gio- 
vanni’s,” said the Cardinal. 

“No ; I have a very slight acquaintance with him. I 
admire him, he has such a fine head. I should be sorry 
if anything happened to him.” 

“Do you think Del Ferice is capable of murdering him ? ” 

“Oh no ! He might annoy him a great deal.” 

“ I think not,” answered the Cardinal, thoughtfully. 
“Del Ferice was afraid that Don Giovanni would marry 
Donna Tullia and spoil his own projects. But Giovanni 
will not think of that again.” 

“No ; I suppose Don Giovanni will marry the Duchessa 
d’Astrardente.” 

“Of course,” replied the Cardinal. For some minute* 
there was silence. Gouache, while busy with his pencil, 
was wondering at the interest the great man took in such 
details of the Roman social life. The Cardinal was 
thinking of Corona, whom he had seen but half an hour 
ago, and was revolving in his mind the advantages that 
might be got by allying her to Giovanni. He had in view 
for her a certain Serene Highness whom he wished to 
conciliate, and whose circumstances were not so splendid 
as to make Corona’s fortune seem insignificant to him. 
But on the other hand, the Cardinal had no Serene High- 
ness ready for Giovanni, and feared lest he should 
after all marry Donna Tullia, and get into the opposite 
camp. 


240 


SARACINESCA. 


“You are from Paris, Monsieur Gouache, I believe,” 
said the Cardinal at last. 

“Parisian of the Parisians, your Eminence.” 

“ How can you bear to live in exile so long ? You 
have not been to your home these four years, I think.” 

“ I would rather live in Rome for the present. I will 
go to Paris some day. It will always be a pleasant recol- 
lection to have seen Rome in these days. My friends 
write me that Paris is gay, but not pleasant.” 

“You think there will soon be nothing of this time left 
but the recollection of it ? ” suggested the Cardinal. 

“ I do not know what to think. The times seem un- 
settled, and so are my ideas. I was told that your Emi- 
nence would help me to decide what to believe.” Gouache 
smiled pleasantly, and looked up. 

“ And who told you that ? ” 

“Don Giovanni Saracinesca.” 

“But I must have some clue to what your ideas are,” 
said the Cardinal. “ When did Don Giovanni say that ? ” 

“At Prince Frangipani’s. He had been talking with 
your Eminence — perhaps he had come to some conclusion 
in consequence,” suggested Gouache. 

“ Perhaps so,” answered the great man, with a look of 
considerable satisfaction. “ At all events I am flattered 
by the opinion he gave you of me. Perhaps I may help 
you to decide. What are your opinions ? or rather, what 
would you like your opinions to be ? ” 

“ I am an ardent republican,” said Gouache, boldly. It 
needed no ordinary courage to make such a statement to 
the incarnate chief of reactionary politics in those days — 
within the walls of the Vatican, not a hundred yards from 
the private apartments of the Holy Father. But Cardinal 
Antonelli smiled blandly, and seemed not in the least sur- 
prised nor offended. 

“Republicanism is an exceedingly vague term, Mon- 
sieur Gouache,” he said. “But with what other opin- 
ions do you wish to reconcile your republicanism ? ” 

“ With those held by the Church. I am a good Catholic, 


SARACINESCA. 


241 


and I desire to remain one — indeed I cannot help remain- 
ing one.” 

“Christianity is not vague, at all events,” answered 
the Cardinal, who, to tell the truth, was somewhat aston- 
ished at the artist’s juxtaposition of two such principles. 
“ In the first place, allow me to observe, my friend, that 
Christianity is the purest form of a republic which the 
world has ever seen, and that it therefore only depends 
upon your good sense to reconcile in your own mind two 
ideas which from the first have been indissolubly bound 
together.” 

It was Gouache’s turn to be startled at the Cardinal’s 
confidence. 

“ I am afraid I must ask your Eminence for some fur- 
ther explanation,” he said. “I had no idea that Chris- 
tianity and republicanism were the same thing.” 

“ Republicanism,” returned the statesman, “ is a vague 
term, invented in an abortive attempt to define by one 
word the mass of inextricable disorder arising in our 
times from the fusion of socialistic ideas with ideas purely 
republican. If you mean to speak of this kind of thing, 
you must define precisely your position in regard to 
socialism, and in regard to the pure theory of a common- 
wealth. If you mean to speak of a real republic in any 
known form, such as the ancient Roman, the Dutch, or the 
American, I understand you without further explanation.” 

“I certainly mean to speak of the pure republic. I 
believe that under a pure republic the partition of wealth 
would take care of itself.” 

“Very good, my friend. Now, with regard to the early 
Christians, should you say that their communities were 
monarchic, or aristocratic, or oligarchic ? ” 

“None of those three, I should think,” said Gouache. 

“There are only two systems left, then — democracy 
and hierarchy. You will probably say that the govern- 
ment of the early Christians was of the latter kind — that 
they were governed by priests, in fact. But on the other 
hand, there is no doubt that both those who governed, 

p 


SARACINESCA. 


. 242 

and those who were governed by them, had all things in 
common, regarded no man as naturally superior to an- 
other, and preached a fraternity and equality at least as 
sincere as those inculcated by the first French Republic. 
I do not see how you can avoid calling such community 
a republic, seeing that there was an equal partition of 
wealth ; and defining it as a democratic one, seeing that 
they all called each other brethren.” 

“ But the hierarchy — what became of it ? ” inquired 
Gouache. 

“ The hierarchy existed within the democracy, by com- 
mon consent and for the public good, and formed a sec- 
ond democracy of smaller extent but greater power. Any 
man might become a priest, any priest might become a 
bishop, any bishop might become pope, as surely as any 
born citizen of Rome could become consul, or any native 
of New York may be elected President of the United 
States. Now in theory this was beautiful, and in prac- 
tice the democratic spirit of the hierarchy, the smaller re- 
public, has survived in undiminished vigour to the present 
day. In the original Christian theory the whole world 
should now be one vast republic, in which all Christians 
should call each other brothers, and support each other 
in worldly as well as spiritual matters. Within this 
should exist the smaller republic of the hierarchy, by 
common consent, — an elective body, recruiting its num- 
bers from the larger, as it does now ; choosing its head, 
the sovereign Pontiff, as it does now, to be the head of 
both Church and State ; eminently fitted for that position, 
for the very simple reason that in a community organised 
and maintained upon such principles, in which, by virtue 
of the real and universal love of religion, the best men 
would find their way into the Church, and would ulti- 
mately find their way to the papal throne.” 

“Your Eminence states the case very convincingly,” 
answered Gouache. “ But why has the larger republic, 
which was to contain the smaller one, ceased to exist ? 
or rather, why did it never come into existence ? ” 


SARACINESCA. 


243 


u Because man has not yet fulfilled his part in the great 
contract. The matter lies in a nutshell. The men who 
enter the Church are sufficiently intelligent and well 
educated to appreciate the advantages of Christian democ- 
racy, fellowship, solidarity, and brotherly love. The 
republic of the Church has therefore survived, and will 
survive for ever. The men who form the majority, on 
the other hand, have never had either the intelligence or 
the education to understand that democracy is the ulti- 
mate form of government : instead of forming themselves 
into a federation, they have divided themselves into 
hostile factions, calling themselves nations, and seeking 
every occasion for destroying and plundering each other, 
frequently even turning against the Church herself. The 
Church has committed faults in history, without doubt, 
but on the whole she has nobly fulfilled her contract, and 
reaps the fruits of fidelity in the vigour and unity she 
displays after eighteen centuries. Man, on the other 
hand, has failed to do his duty, and all races of men are 
consequently suffering for their misdeeds ; the nations are 
divided against each other, and every nation is a house 
divided against itself, which sooner or later shall fall.” 

“ But,” objected Gouache, “ allowing, as one easily may, 
that all this is true, your Eminence is always called reac- 
tionary in politics. Does that accord with these views ?” 

Gouache believed the question unanswerable, but as he 
put it he worked calmly on with his pencil, labouring 
hard to catch something of the Cardinal’s striking expres- 
sion in the rough drawing he was making. 

“ Nothing is easier, my friend,” replied the statesman. 
“The republic of the Church is driven to bay. We are 
on a war footing. For the sake of strength we are 
obliged to hold together so firmly that for the time we 
can only think of maintaining old traditions without 
dreaming of progress or spending time in experiments. 
When we have weathered the storm we shall have leisure 
for improving much that needs improvement. Do not 
think that if I am alive twenty years hence I shall advise 


244 


SARACINESCA. 


what I advise now. We are fighting now, and we have 
no time to think of the arts of peace. We shall have 
peace some day. We shall lose an ornament or two from 
our garments in the struggle, but our body will not be 
injured, and in time of peace our ornaments will be re- 
stored to us fourfold. But now there is war and rumour 
of war. There is a vast (Jifference between the ideal 
republic which I was speaking of, and the real anarchy 
and confusion which would be brought about by what is 
called republicanism.” 

“In other words, if the attack upon the Church were 
suddenly abandoned, your Eminence would immediately 
abandon your reactionary policy,” said Gouache, “and 
adopt progressive views ? ” 

“ Immediately,” replied the Cardinal. 

“ I see,” said Gouache. “ A little more towards me — 
just so that I can catch that eye. Thank you — that will 
do.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

When Del Eerice was thought sufficiently recovered of 
his wound to hear some of the news of the day, which 
was about three weeks after the duel, he learned that 
Astrardente was dead, that the Duchessa had inherited 
all his fortune, and that she was on the -point of leaving 
Rome. It would be hard to say how the information of 
her approaching departure had got abroad ; it might be 
merely a clever guess of the gossips, or it might be the 
report gleaned from her maid by all the other maids in 
town. Be that as it may, when Del Ferice heard it he 
ground his teeth as he lay upon his bed, and swore that 
if it were possible to prevent the Duchessa d’ Astrardente 
from leaving town he would do it. In his judgment it 
would be a dangerous thing to let Corona and Giovanni 
part, and to allow Donna Tullia free play in her matri- 


SARACINESCA. 


245 


monial designs. Of course Giovanni would never marry 
Madame Mayer, especially as lie was now at liberty to 
marry the Astrardente; but Madame Mayer herself 
might become fatally interested, in him, as she already 
seemed inclined to be, and this would be bad for Del 
Ferice’s own prospects. It would not do to squander 
any of the advantages gained by the death of the old 
Duca. Giovanni must be hastened into a marriage with 
Corona; it would be time enough to think of revenge 
upon him afterwards for the ghastly wound that took so 
long to heal. 

It was a pity that Del Ferice and Donna Tullia were 
not allies, for if Madame Mayer hated Corona d’ Astrar- 
dente, Ugo del Ferice detested Giovanni with equal viru- 
lency, not only because he had been so terribly worsted 
by him in the duel his own vile conduct had made inevi- 
table, but because Donna Tullia loved him and was doing 
her very best to marry him. Evidently the best thing 
to be done was to produce a misunderstanding between 
the two ; but it would be dangerous to play any tricks 
with Giovanni, for he held Del Ferice in his power by his 
knowledge of that disagreeable scene behind the plants 
in the conservatory. Saracinesca was a great man in 
society and celebrated for his honesty ; people would be- 
lieve him rather than Del Ferice, if the story got abroad. 
This would not do. The next best thing was to endeavour 
to draw Giovanni and Corona together as quickly as pos- 
sible, to precipitate their engagement, and thus to clear 
the field of a dangerous rival. Del Ferice was a very 
obstinate and a very intelligent man. He meant more 
than ever to marry Donna Tullia himself, and he would 
not be hindered in the accomplishment of his object by 
an insignificant scruple. 

He was not allowed to speak much, lest the effort 
should retard the healing of his throat ; but in the long 
days and nights, when he lay silent in his quiet lodging, 
he had ample time to revolve many schemes in his brain. 
At last he no longer needed the care of the Sister of 


246 


SARACINESCA. 


Mercy ; his servant took charge of him, and the surgeon 
came twice a-day to dress his wound. He lay in bed 
one morning watching Temistocle, who moved noiselessly 
about the room. 

“Temistocle,” he said, “you are a youth of intelli- 
gence : you must use the gifts nature has given you.” 

Temistocle was at that time not more than five-and- 
twenty years of age. He had a muddy complexion, a 
sharp hooked nose, and a cast in one eye that gave him 
a singularly unpleasant expression. As his master ad- 
dressed him, he stood still and listened with a sort of 
distorted smile in acknowledgment of the compliment 
made him. 

“Temistocle, you must find out when the Duchessa 
d’Astrardente means to leave Kome, and where she is 
going. You know somebody in the house ? ” 

“Yes, sir — the under-cook; he stood godfather with 
me for the baby of a cousin of mine — the young man 
who drives Prince Valdarno’s private brougham: a clever 
fellow, too.” 

“ And this under-cook,” said Del Ferice, who was not 
above entering into details with his servant — “is he a 
discreet character ? ” 

“ Oh, for that, you may trust him. Only sometimes 
— — ” Temistocle grinned, and made a gesture which 
signified drinking. 

“ And when he is drunk ? ” asked Del Ferice. 

“ When he is drunk he tells everything ; but he never 
remembers anything he has been told, or has said. When 
he is drunk he is a dictionary ; but the first draught of 
water washes out his memory like a slate.” 

“Well — give me my purse; it is under my pillow. 
Go. Here is a scudo, Temistocle. You can make him 
very drunk for that.” 

Temistocle hesitated, and looked at the money. 

“Another couple of pauls would make it safer,” he 
remarked. 

“ Well, there they are ; but you must make him very 


SARACINESCA. 


247 


drunk indeed. You must find out all he knows, and you 
must keep sober yourself.” 

“ Leave that to me. I will make of him a sponge ; he 
shall be squeezed dry, and sopped again and squeezed 
again. I will be his confessor.” 

“ If you find out what I want, I will give you ” Del 

Ferice hesitated ; he did not mean to give too much. 

“ The grey trousers ? ” asked Temistocle, with an avari- 
cious light in the eye which did not wander. 

“Yes,” answered his master, rather regretfully ; “ I sup- 
pose you must have the grey trousers at last.” 

“ For those grey trousers I will upset heaven and earth,” 
returned Temistocle in great glee. 

Nothing more was said on that day, but early on the . 
following morning the man entered and opened the shut- 
ters, and removed the little oil-light that had burned all 
night. He kept one eye upon his master, who presently 
turned slowly and looked inquiringly at him. 

“ The Duchessa goes to Astrardente in the Sabines on 
the day after to-morrow,” said Temistocle. “It is quite 
sure that she goes, because she has already sent out two 
pairs of horses, and several boxes of effects, besides the 
second housemaid and the butler and two grooms.” 

“ Ah ! that is very good. Temistocle, I think I will 
get up this morning and sit in the next room.” 

“And the grey trousers ? ” 

“Take them, and wear them in honour of the most 
generous master living,” said Del Ferice, impressively. 
“ It is not every master who gives his servant a pair of 
grey trousers. Remember that.” 

“ Heaven bless you, Signor Conte ! ” exclaimed Temis- 
tocle, devoutly. 

Del Ferice lost no time. He was terribly weak still, 
and his wound was not entirely healed yet ; but he set 
himself resolutely to his writing-table, and did not rise 
until he had written two letters. The first was carefully 
written in a large round hand, such as is used by copyists 
in Italy, resembling the Gothic. It was impossible to con- 


248 


SARACINESCA. 


nect the laboriously formed and conventional letters with 
any particular person. It was very short, as follows : — 

“ It may interest you to know that the Duchessa d’As- 
trardente is going to her castle in the Sabines on the day 
after to-morrow.” 

This laconic epistle Del Ferice carefully directed to Don 
Giovanni Saracinesca at his palace, and fastened a stamp 
upon it ; but he concealed the address from Temistocle. 
The second letter was longer, and written in his own small 
and ornate handwriting. It was to Donna Tullia Mayer. 
It ran thus : — 

“ You would forgive my importuning you with a letter, 
most charming Donna Tullia, if you could conceive of my 
desolation and loneliness. For more than three weeks 1 
have been entirely deprived of the pleasure, the exquisite 
delight, of conversing with her for whom I have suffered. 
I still suffer so much. Ah ! if my paper were a cloth of 
gold, and my pen in moving traced characters of diamond 
and pearl, yet any words which speak of you would be 
ineffectually honoured by such transcription ! In the 
miserable days and nights I have passed between life and 
death, it is your image which has consoled me, the echo 
of your delicate voice which has soothed my pain, the 
remembrance of the last hours I spent with you which has 
gilded the feverish dreams of my sickness. You are the 
guardian angel of a most unhappy man, Donna Tullia. 
Do you know it ? But for you I would have wooed death 
as a comforter. As it is, I have struggled desperately to 
keep my grasp upon life, in the hope of once more seeing 
your smile and hearing your happy laugh; perhaps — I 
dare not expect it — I may receive from you some slight 
word of sympathy, some little half-sighed hint that you do 
not altogether regret having been in these long weeks the 
unconscious comforter of my sorrowing spirit and tor- 
mented body. You would hardly know me, could you 
see me; but saving for your sweet spiritual presence, 
which has rescued me from the jaws of death, you would 


SARACINESCA. 


249 


never have seen me again. Is it presumption in me to 
write thus ? Have you ever given me a right to speak 
in these words ? I do not know. I do not care. Man 
has a right to be grateful. It is the first and most divine 
right I possess, to feel and to express my gratitude. For 
out of the store of your kindness shown me when I was 
in the world, strong and happy in the privilege of your 
society, I have drawn healing medicine in my sickness, 
as tormented souls in purgatory get refreshment from the 
prayers of good and kind people who remember them on 
earth. So, therefore, if I have said too much, forgive me, 
forgive the heartfelt gratitude which prompts me ; and 
believe still in the respectful and undying devotion of 
the humblest of your servants, Ugo del Ferice.” 

Del Ferice read over what he had written with con- 
siderable satisfaction, and having addressed his letter to 
Donna Tullia, he lost no time in despatching Temistocle 
with it, instructing him to ask if there would be an answer. 
As soon as the man was out of the house, Ugo rang for 
his landlady, and sent for the porter’s little boy, to whom 
he delivered the letter to Don Giovanni, to be dropped 
into the nearest post-box. Then he lay down, exhausted 
with his morning’s work. In the course of two hours 
Temistocle returned from Donna Tullia’s house with a 
little scented note — too much scented, and the paper just 
a shade too small. She took no notice of what he had 
said in his carefully penned epistle ; but merely told him 
she was sincerely glad that he was better^ and asked him 
to call as soon as he could. Ugo was not disappointed ; 
he had expected no compromising expression of interest 
in response to his own effusions; and he was well pleased 
with the invitation, for it showed that what he had writ- 
ten had produced the desired result. 

Don Giovanni Saracinesca received the anonymous note 
late in the evening. He had, of course, together with his 
father, deposited cards of condolence at the Palazzo As- 
trardente, and he had been alone to inquire if the Duchessa 


250 


SARACINESCA. 


would receive him. The porter had answered that, for 
the present, there were standing orders to admit no one ; 
and as Giovanni could boast of no especial intimacy, and 
had no valid excuse to give, he was obliged to be satis- 
fied. He had patiently waited in the Villa Borghese and 
by the band-stand on the Pincio, taking it for granted 
that sooner or later Corona’s carriage would appear ; but 
when at last he had seen her brougham, she had driven 
rapidly past him, thickly veiled, and he did not think she 
had even noticed him. He would have written to her, 
but he was still unable to hold a pen ; and he reflected 
that, after all, it would have been a hideous farce for 
him to offer condolences and sympathy, however much 
he might desire to hide from himself his secret satisfac- 
tion at her husband’s death. Too proud to think of ob- 
taining information through such base channels as Del 
Ferice was willing to use, he was wholly ignorant of 
Corona’s intentions; and it was a brilliant proof of Ugo’s 
astuteness that he had rightly judged Giovanni’s position 
with regard to her, and justly estimated the value of the 
news conveyed by his anonymous note. 

Saracinesca read the scrap of writing, and tossed it 
angrily into the fire. He hated underhand dealings, and 
scorned himself for the interest the note excited in him, 
wondering who could find advantage in informing him of 
the Duchessa’s movements. But the note took effect, 
nevertheless, although he was ashamed of it, and all 
night he pondered upon what it told him. The next day, 
at three o’clock, he went out alone, and walked rapidly 
towards the Palazzo Astrardente. He was unable to 
bear the suspense any longer ; the thought that Corona 
was going away, apparently to shut herself up in the soli- 
tude of the ancient fortress, for any unknown number of 
months, and that he might not see her until the autumn, 
was intolerable. He knew that by the mere use of his 
name he could at least make sure that she should know 
he was at her door, and he determined to make the at- 
tempt. He waited a long time, pacing slowly the broad 


SARACINESC^. 


251 


flagstones beneath the arch of the palace, while the por- 
ter himself went up with his card and message. The 
fellow had hesitated, but Don Giovanni Saracinesca was 
not a man to be refused by a servant. At last the porter 
returned, and, bowing to the ground, said that the Signora 
Duchessa would receive him. 

In five minutes he was waiting alone in the great draw- 
ing-room*. It had cost Corona a struggle to allow him to 
be admitted. She hesitated long, for it seemed like a 
positive wrong to her husband’s memory, but the woman 
in her yielded at last ; she was going away on the follow- 
ing morning, and she could not refuse to see him for once. 
She hesitated again as she laid her hand upon the latch 
of the door, knowing that he was in the room beyond ; 
then at last she entered. 

Her face was very pale and very grave. Her simple 
gown of close-fitting black set off her height and figure, 
and flowed softly in harmony with her stately movements 
as she advanced towards Giovanni, who stood almost awe- 
struck in the middle of the room. He could not realise 
that this dark sad princess was the same woman to whom 
less than a month ago he had spoken such passionate 
words, whom he had madly tried to take into his arms. 
Proud as he was, it seemed presumptuous in him to think 
of love in connection with so royal a woman ; and yet he 
knew that he loved her better and more truly than he 
had done a month before. She held out her hand to him, 
and he raised it to his lips. Then they both sat down in 
silence. 

“ I had despaired of ever seeing you again,” said Gio- 
vanni at last, speaking in a subdued voice. “ I had wished 
for some opportunity of telling you how sincerely I sym- 
pathise with you in your great loss.” It was a very formal 
speech, such as men make in such situations. It might 
have been better, but he was not eloquent ; even his rough 
old father had a better command of language on ordinary 
occasions, though Giovanni could speak well enough when 
he was roused. But he felt constrained in the presence 


252 


SARACINESCA. 


of the woman he adored. Corona herself hardly knew 
how to answer. 

“ You are very kind/’ she said, simply. 

“ I wish it were possible to be of any service to you,” 
he answered. “ I need not tell you that both my father 
and myself would hold it an honour to assist you in any 
way.” He mentioned his father from a feeling of deli- 
cacy ; he did not wish to put himself forward. 

“You are very kind,” repeated Corona, gravely. “ I 
have not had any annoyance. I have an excellent man 
of business.” 

There was a moment’s pause. Then she seemed to 
understand that he was embarrassed, and spoke again. 

“ I am glad to see that you are recovered,” she said. 

“ It was nothing,” answered Giovanni, with a glance 
at his right arm, which was still confined in a bandage 
of black silk, but was no longer in a sling. 

“ It was very wrong of you,” returned Corona, looking 
seriously into his eyes. “ I do not know why you fought, 
but it was wrong; it is a great sin.” 

Giovanni smiled a little. 

“We all have to sin sometimes,” he said. “ Would you 
have me stand quietly and see an abominable piece of 
baseness, and not lift a hand to punish the offender ? ” 

“ People who do base things always come to a bad end,” 
answered the Duchessa. 

“ Perhaps. But we poor sinners are impatient to see 
justice done at once. I am sorry to have done anything 
you consider wrong,” he added, with a shade, of bitter- 
ness. “Will you permit me to change the subject ? Are 
you thinking of remaining in Borne, or do you mean to 
go away ? ” 

“ I am going up to Astrardente to-morrow,” answered 
Corona, readily. “ I want to be alone and in the country.” 

Giovanni showed no surprise : his anonymous informa- 
tion had been accurate ; Del Ferice had not parted with 
the grey trousers in vain. 

“ I suppose you are right,” he said. “ But at this time 


SARACINESCA. 253 

of year I should think the mountains would be very 
cold.” 

“ The castle is comfortable. It has been recently fitted 
up, and there are many warm rooms in it. I am fond of 
the old place, and I need to be alone for a long time.” 

Giovanni thought the conversation was becoming op- 
pressive. He thought of what had passed between them 
at their last meeting in the conservatory of the Palazzo 
Prangipani. 

“ I shall myself pass the summer in Saracinesca,” he 
said, suddenly. “ You know it is not very far. May I 
hope that I may sometimes be permitted to see you ? ” 

Corona had certainly had no thought of seeing Gio- 
vanni when she had determined to go to Astrardente ; 
she had not been there often, and had not realised that 
it was within reach of the Saracinesca estate. She 
started slightly. 

“ Is it so near ? ” she asked. 

“ Half a day’s ride over the hills,” replied Giovanni. 

“ I did not know. Of course, if you come, you will not 
be denied hospitality.” 

“ But you would rather not see me ? ” asked Saracin- 
esca, in a tone of disappointment. He had hoped for 
something more encouraging. Corona answered courage- 
ously. 

“ I would rather not see you. Do not think me un- 
kind,” she added, her voice softening a little. “ Why 
need there be any explanations ? Do not try to see me. 
I wish you well ; I wish you more — all happiness — but 
do not try to see me.” 

Giovanni’s face grew grave and pale. He was dis- 
appointed, even humiliated ; but something told him that 
it was not coldness which prompted her request. 

“ Your commands are my laws,” he answered. 

“I would rather that instead of regarding what I ask 
you as a command, you should feel that it ought to be 
the natural prompting of your own heart,” replied Corona, 
somewhat coldly. 


254 


SARACINESCA. 


“ Forgive me if my heart dictates what my obedience 
to you must effectually forbid,” said Giovanni. “I 
beseech you to be satisfied that what you ask I will per- 
form — blindly.” 

“Not blindly — you know all nfy reasons.” 

“ There is that between you and me which annihilates 
reason,” answered Giovanni, his voice trembling a little. 

“ There is that in my position which should command 
your respect,” said Corona. She feared he was going too 
far, and yet this time she knew she had not said too 
much, and that in bidding him avoid her, she was only 
doing what was strictly necessary for her peace. “ I am 
a widow,” she continued, very gravely ; “I am a woman, 
and I am alone. My only protection lies in the courtesy 
I have a right to expect from men like you. You have 
expressed your sympathy ; show it then by cheerfully 
fulfilling my request. I do not speak in riddles, but very 
plainly. You recall to me a moment of great pain, and 
your presence, the mere fact of my receiving you, seems a 
disloyalty to the memory of my husband. I have given 
you no reason to believe that I ever took a greater 
interest in you than such as I might take in a friend. I 
hourly pray that this — this too great interest you show 
in me, may pass quickly, and leave you what you were 
before. You see I do not speak darkly, and I do not 
mean to speak unkindly. Do not answer me, I beseech 
you, but take this as my last word. Forget me if you 
can ” 

“ I cannot,” said Giovanni, deeply moved. 

“ Try. If you cannot, God help you ! but I am sure 
that if you try faithfully, you will succeed. And now 
you must go,” she said, in gentler tones. “You should 
not have come — I should not have let you see me. But 
it is best so. I am grateful for the sympathy you have 
expressed. I do not doubt that you will do as I have 
asked you, and as you have promised. Good-bye.” 

Corona rose to her feet, her hands folded before her. 
Giovanni had no choice. She let her eyes rest upon him, 


SARACINESCA. 


255 


not unkindly, but she did not extend her hand. He 
stood one moment in hesitation, then bowed and left the 
room without a word. Corona stood still, and her eyes 
followed his retreating figure until at the door he turned 
once more and bent his head and then was gone. Then 
she fell back into her chair and gazed listlessly at the 
wall opposite. 

“ It is done,” she said at last. “ I hope it is well done 
and wisely.” Indeed it had been a hard thing to say ; 
but it was better to say it at once than to regret an ill- 
timed indulgence when it should be too late. And yet it 
had cost her less to send him away definitely than it had 
cost her to resist his passionate appeal a month ago. She 
seemed to have gained strength from her sorrows. So he 
was gone ! She gave a sigh of relief, which was instantly 
followed by a sharp throb of pain, so sudden that she 
hardly understood it. 

Her preparations were all made. She had at the last 
moment realised that it was not fitting for her, at her age, 
to travel alone, nor to live wholly alone in her widowhood. 
She had revolved the matter in her mind, and had decided 
that there was no woman of her acquaintance whom she 
could ask even for a short time to stay with her. She 
had no friends, no relations, none to turn to in such a 
need. It was not that she cared for company in her soli- 
tude ; it was merely a question of propriety. To over- 
come the difficulty, she obtained permission to take with 
her one of the sisters of a charitable order of nuns, a lady 
in middle life, but broken down and in ill health from 
her untiring labours. The thing was easily managed ; 
and the next morning, on leaving the palace, she stopped 
at the gate of the community and found Sister Gabriel le 
waiting with her modest box. The nun entered the 
huge travelling carriage, and the two ladies set out for 
Astrardente. 

It was the first day of Carnival, and a memorably sad 
one for Giovanni Saracinesca. He would have been cap- 
able of leaving Kome at once, but that he had promised 


256 


SARACINESCA. 


Corona not to attempt to see her. He would have gone 
to Saracinesca for the mere sake of being nearer to her, 
had he not reflected that he would be encouraging all man- 
ner of gossip by so doing. But he determined that so 
soon as Lent began, he would declare his intention of 
leaving the city for a year. No one ever went to Sara- 
cinesca, and by making a circuit he could reach the an- 
cestral castle without creating suspicion. He might even 
go to Paris for a few days, and have it supposed that he 
was wandering about Europe, for he could trust his own 
servants implicitly ; they were not of the type who would 
drink wine at a tavern with Temistocle or any of his 
class. 

The old Prince came into his son’s room in the morning 
and found him disconsolately looking over his guns, for 
the sake of an occupation. 

“Well, Giovanni,” he said, “you have time to reflect 
upon your future conduct. What ! are you going upon 
a shooting expedition ? ” 

“I wish I could. I wish I could find anything to do,” 
answered Giovanni, laying down the breech-loader and 
looking out of the window. “ The world is turned inside 
out like a beggar’s pocket, and there is nothing in it.” 

“ So the Astrardente is gone,’* remarked the Prince. 

“ Yes ; gone to live within twenty miles of Saracinesca,” 
replied Giovanni, with an angry intonation. 

“Do not go there yet,” said liis father. “Leave her 
alone a while. Women become frantic in solitude.” 

“ Do you think I am an idiot ? ” exclaimed Giovanni. 
“ Of course I shall stay where I am till Carnival is over.” 
He was not in a good humour. 

“ Why are you so petulant ? ” retorted the old man. 
“ I merely gave you my advice.” 

“Well, I am going to follow it. It is good. When 
Carnival is over I will go away, and perhaps get to Sara- 
cinesca by a roundabout way, so that no one will know 
where I am. Will you not come too ? ” 

“I daresay,” answered the Prince, who was always 


SARACINESCA. 257 

pleased when his son expressed a desire for his company. 
“ I wish we lived in the good old times.” 

“ Why?” 

“ We would make small scruple of besieging Astrardente 
and carrying off the Duchessa for you, my boy,” said the 
Prince, grimly. 

Giovanni laughed. Perhaps the same idea had crossed 
his mind. He was not quite sure whether it was respect- 
ful to Corona to think of carrying her off in the way his 
father suggested ; but there was a curious flavour of possi- 
bility in the suggestion, coming as it did from a man whose 
grandfather might have done such a thing, and whose 
great-grandfather was said to have done it. So strong 
are the instincts of barbaric domination in races where 
the traditions of violence exist in an unbroken chain, that 
both father and son smiled at the idea as if it were quite 
natural, although Giovanni had only the previous day 
promised that he would not even attempt to see Corona 
d’ Astrardente without her permission. He did not tell 
his father of his promise, however, for his more delicate 
instinct made him sure that though he had acted rightly, 
his father would laugh at his scruples, and tell him that 
women liked to be wooed roughly. 

Meanwhile Giovanni felt that Rome had become for 
him a vast solitude, and the smile soon faded from his 
face at the thought that he must go out into the world, 
and for Corona’s sake act as though nothing had hap- 
pened. 


CHAPTER XX. 

Poor Madame Mayer was in great anxiety of mind. 
She had not a great amount of pride, but she made up for 
it by a plentiful endowment of vanity, in which she suf- 
fered acutely. She was a good-natured woman enough, 
and by nature she was not vindictive ; but she could not 

Q 


258 


SARACINESCA. 


help being jealous, for she was in love. She felt how 
Giovanni every day evidently cared less and less for her 
society, and how, on the other hand, Del Ferice was quietly 
assuring his position, so that people already began to whis- 
per that he had a chance of becoming her husband. She 
did not dislike Del Ferice ; he was a convenient man of 
the world, whom she always found ready to help her when 
she needed help. But by dint of making use of him, she 
was beginning to feel in some way bound to consider him 
as an element in her life, and she did not like the position. 
The letter he had written her was of the kind a man might 
write to the woman he loved ; it bordered upon the fa- 
miliar, even while the writer expressed himself in terms 
of exaggerated respect. Perhaps if Del Ferice had been 
well, she would have simply taken no notice of what he 
had written, and would not even have sent an answer ; 
but she had not the heart to repulse him altogether in his 
present condition. There was a phrase cunningly intro- 
duced and ambiguously worded, which seemed to mean 
that he had come by his wound in her cause. He spoke 
of having suffered and of still suffering so much for her, — 
did he mean to refer to pain of body or of mind ? It was 
not certain. Don Giovanni had assured her that she was 
in no way concerned in the duel, and he was well known 
for his honesty ; nevertheless, out of delicacy, he might 
have desired to conceal the truth from her. It seemed 
like him. She longed for an opportunity of talking with 
him and eliciting some explanation of his conduct. There 
had been a time when he used to visit her, and always 
spent some time in her society when they met in the 
world — now, on the contrary, he seemed to avoid her 
whenever he could ; and in proportion as she noticed that 
his manner cooled, her own jealousy against Corona d’As- 
trardente increased in force, until at last it seemed to 
absorb her love for Giovanni into itself and turn it into 
hate. 

Love is a passion which, like certain powerful drugs, 
acts differently upon each different constitution of temper ; 


SARAC1KESCA. 


259 


love also acts more strongly when it is unreturned or 
thwarted than when it is mutual and uneventful. If two 
persons love each other truly, and there is no obstacle to 
their union, it is probable that, without any violent emo- 
tion, their love will grow and become stronger by imper- 
ceptible degrees, without changing in its natural quality ; 
but if thwarted by untoward circumstances, the passion, 
if true, attains suddenly to the dimensions which it would 
otherwise need years to reach. It sometimes happens that 
the nature in which this unforeseen and abnormal develop- 
ment takes place is unable to bear the precocious growth ; 
then, losing sight of its identity in the strange inward 
confusion of heart and mind which ensues, it is driven to 
madness, and, breaking every barrier, either attains its 
object at a single bound, or is shivered and ruined in 
dashing itself against the impenetrable wall of complete 
impossibility. But again, in the last case, when love is 
wholly unreturned, it dies a natural death of atrophy, 
when it has existed in a person of common and average 
nature ; or if the man or woman so afflicted be proud and 
of noble instincts, the passion becomes a kind of religion 
to the heart — sacred, and worthy to be guarded from the 
eyes of the world ; or, finally, again, where it finds vanity 
the dominant characteristic of the being in whom it has 
grown, it draws a poisonous life from the unhealthy soil 
on which it is fed, and the tender seed of love shoots and 
puts forth evil leaves and blossoms, and grows to be a 
most venomous tree, which is the tree of hatred. 

Donna Tullia was certainly a woman who belonged to 
the latter class of individuals. She had qualities which 
were perhaps good because not bad ; but the mainspring 
of her being was an inordinate vanity ; and it was in this 
characteristic that she was most deeply wounded, as she 
found herself gradually abandoned by Giovanni Saracin- 
esca. She had been in the habit of thinking of him as a 
probable husband ; the popular talk had fostered the idea, 
and occasional hints, and smiling questions concerning 
him, had made her feel that he could not long hang back. 


260 


SARACINESCA. 


She had been in the habit of treating him familiarly ; and 
he, tutored by his father to the belief that she was the 
best match for him, and reluctantly yielding to the force 
of circumstances, which seemed driving him into matri- 
mony, had suffered himself to be ordered about and made 
use of with an indifference which, in Madame Mayer’s 
eyes, had passed for consent. She had watched with 
growing fear and jealousy his devotion to the Astrar- 
dente, which all the world had noticed ; and at last her 
anger had broken out at the affront she had received at 
the Frangipani ball. But even then she loved Giovanni 
in her own vain way. It was not till Corona was sud- 
denly left a widow, that Donna Tullia began to realise the 
hopelessness of her position ; and when she found how 
determinately Saracinesca avoided her wherever they 
met, the affection she had hitherto felt for him turned 
into a bitter hatred, stronger even than her jealousy 
against the Duchessa. There was no scene of explana- 
tion between them, no words passed, no dramatic situation, 
such as Donna Tullia loved ; the change came in a few 
days, and was complete. She had not even the satisfac- 
tion of receiving some share of the attention Giovanni 
would have bestowed upon Corona if she had been in 
town. Not only had he grown utterly indifferent to her ; 
he openly avoided her, and thereby inflicted upon her 
vanity the cruellest wound she was capable of feeling. 

With Donna Tullia to hate was to injure, to long for 
revenge — not of the kind which is enjoyed in secret, and 
known only to the person who suffers and the person who 
causes the suffering. She did not care for that so much 
as she desired some brilliant triumph over her enemies 
before the world; some startling instance of poetic jus- 
tice, which should at one blow do a mortal injury to 
Corona d’Astrardente, and bring Giovanni Saracinesca to 
her own feet by force, repentant and crushed, to be dealt 
with as she saw fit, according to his misdeeds. But she 
had chosen her adversaries ill, and her heart misgave her. 
She had no hold upon them, for they were very strong 


SARACINESCA. 


261 


people, very powerful, and very much respected by their 
fellows. It was not easy to bring them into trouble ; it 
seemed impossible to humiliate them as she wished to do, 
and yet her hate was very strong. She waited and pon- 
dered, and in the meanwhile, when she met Giovanni, 
she began to treat him with haughty coldness. But Gio- 
vanni smiled, and seemed well satisfied that she should 
at last give over what was to him very like a persecution. 
Her anger grew hotter from its very impotence. The 
world saw it, and laughed. 

The days of Carnival came and passed, much as they 
usually pass, in a whirl of gaiety. Giovanni went every- 
where, and showed his grave face ; but he talked little, 
and of course every one said he was melancholy at the 
departure of the Duchessa. Nevertheless he kept up an 
appearance of interest in what was done, and as nobody 
cared to risk asking him questions, people left him in 
peace. The hurrying crowd of social life filled up the 
place occupied by old Astrardente and the beautiful 
Duchessa, and they were soon forgotten, for they had 
not had many intimate friends. 

On the last night of Carnival, Del Ferice appeared 
once more. He had not been able to resist the temptation 
of getting one glimpse of the world he loved, before the 
wet blanket of Lent extinguished the lights of the ball- 
rooms and the jollity of the dancers. Every one was sur- 
prised to see him, and most people were pleased ; he was 
such a useful man, that he had often been missed during 
the time of his illness. He was improved in appearance ; 
for though he was very pale, he had grown also extremely 
thin, and his features had gained delicacy. 

When Giovanni saw him, he went up to him, and the 
two men exchanged a formal salutation, while every one 
stood still for a moment to see the meeting. It was over 
in a moment, and society gave a little sigh of relief, as 
though a weight were removed from its mind. Then Del 
Ferice went to Donna Tullia’s side. They were soon alone 
upon a small sofa in a small room, whither a couple strayed 


262 


SARACINESCA. 


now and then to remain a few minutes before returning to 
the ball. A few people passed through, but for more than 
an hour they were not disturbed. 

“ I am very glad to see you,” said Donna Tullia; “but 
I had hoped that the first time you went out you would 
have come to my house.” 

“This is the first time' I have been out — you see I 
should not have found you at home, since I have found 
you here.” 

“Are you entirely recovered ? You still look ill.” 

“ I am a little weak — but an hour with you will do me 
more good than all the doctors in the world.” 

“ Thanks,” said Donna Tullia, with a little laugh. “ It 
was strange to see you shaking hands with Giovanni Sara- 
cinesca just now. I suppose men have to do that sort of 
thing.” 

“You may be sure I would not have done it unless it 
had been necessary,” returned Del Ferice, bitterly. 

“ I should think not. What an arrogant man he is ! ” 

“You no longer like him?” asked Del Ferice, inno- 
cently. 

“Like him! No; I never liked him,” replied Donna 
Tullia, quickly. 

“ Oh, I thought you did; I used to wonder at it.” Ugo 
grew thoughtful. 

“ I was always good to him,” said Donna Tullia. “ But 
of course I can never forgive him for what he did at the 
Frangipani ball.” 

“ No ; nor I,” answered Del Ferice, readily. “ I shall 
always hate him for that too.” 

“ I do not say that I exactly hate him.” 

“You have every reason. It appears to me that since 
my illness we have another idea in common, another bond 
of sympathy.” Del Ferice spoke almost tenderly; but 
he laughed immediately afterwards, as though not wish- 
ing his words to be interpreted too seriously. Donna 
Tullia smiled too ; she was inclined to be very kind to 
him. 


SARACINESCA. 263 

“ You are very quick to jump at conclusions,” she said, 
playing with her red fan and looking down. 

“ It is always easy to reach that pleasant conclusion — 
that you and I are in sympathy,” he answered, with a 
tender glance, “ even in regard to hating the same person. 
The bond would be close indeed, if it depended on the 
opposite of hate. And yet I sometimes think it does. 
Are you not the best friend I have in the world ? ” 

“I do not know, — I am a good friend to you,” she 
answered. 

“ Indeed you are ; but do you not think it would be 
possible to cement our friendship even more closely 
yet ? ” 

Donna Tullia looked up sharply; she had no idea of 
allowing him to propose to marry her. His face, however, 
was grave — unlike his usual expression when he meant to 
be tender, and which she knew very well. 

“ I do not know,” she said, with a light laugh. “ How 
do you mean ? ” 

“ If I could do you some great service — if I could by 
any means satisfy what is now your chief desire in life — 
would not that help to cement our friendship, as I said ? ” 

“ Perhaps,” she answered, thoughtfully. “But then 
you do not know — you cannot guess even — what I most 
wish at this moment.” 

“I think I could,” said Del Ferice, fixing his eyes upon 
her. “ I am sure I could, but I will not. I should risk 
offending you.” 

“No; I will not be angry. You may guess if you 
please.” Donna Tullia in her turn looked fixedly at her 
companion. They seemed trying to read each other’s 
thoughts. 

“Very well,” said Ugo at last, “I will tell you. You 
would like to see the Astrardente dead and Giovanni 
Saracinesca profoundly humiliated.” 

Donna Tullia started. But indeed there was nothing 
strange in her companion’s knowledge of her feelings. 
Many people, being asked what she felt, would very likely 


264 


SARACINESCA. 


have said the same, for the world had seen her discomfit- 
ure and had laughed at it. 

“ You are a very singular man,” she said, uneasily. 

“In other words,” replied Del Ferice, calmly, “I am 
perfectly right in my surmises. I see it in your face. 
Of course,” he added, with a laugh, “ it is mere jest. But 
the thing is quite possible. If I fulfilled your desire of 
just and poetic vengeance, what would you give me ? ” 

Donna Tullia laughed in her turn, to conceal the ex- 
treme interest she felt in what he said. 

“ Whatever you like,” she said. But even while the 
laugh was on her lips her eyes sought his uneasily. 

“Would you marry me, for instance, as the enchanted 
princess in the fairy story marries the prince who frees 
her from the spell ? ” He seeme,d immensely amused at 
the idea. 

“ Why not ? ” she laughed. 

“It would be the only just recompense,” he answered. 
“ See how impossible the thing appears. And yet a few 
pounds of dynamite would blow up the Great Pyramid. 
Giovanni Saracinesca is not so strong as he looks.” 

“ Oh, I would not have him hurt ! ” exclaimed Donna 
Tullia in alarm. 

“ I do not mean physically, nor morally, but socially.” 

“How?” 

“ That is my secret,” returned Del Ferice, quietly. 

“It sounds as though you were pretending to know 
more than you really do,” she answered. 

“No; it is the plain truth,” said Del Ferice, quietly. 
“ If you were in earnest I might be willing to tell you 
what the secret is, but for a mere jest I cannot. It is far 
too serious a matter.” 

His tone convinced Donna Tullia that he really pos- 
sessed some weapon which he could use against Don Gio- 
vanni if he pleased. She wondered only why, if it were 
true, he did not use it, seeing that he must hate Saracinesca 
with all his heart. Del Ferice knew so much about 
people, so many strange and forgotten stories, he had so 


SARACINESCA. 


265 


accurate a memory and so acute an intelligence, that it 
was by no means impossible that he was in possession of 
some secret connected with the Saracinesca. They were, 
or were thought to be, wild, unruly men, both father and 
son; there were endless stories about them both; and 
there was nothing more likely than that, in his numerous 
absences from home, Giovanni had at one time or another 
figured in some romantic affair, which he would be sorry 
to have had generally known. Del Ferice was wise enough 
to keep his own counsel ; but now that his hatred was 
thoroughly roused, he might very likely make use of the 
knowledge he possessed. Donna Tullia’s curiosity was 
excited to its highest pitch, and at the same time she had 
pleasant visions of the possible humiliation of the man by 
whom she felt herself so ill-used. It would be worth 
while making the sacrifice in order to learn Del Ferice’s 
secret. 

“This need not be a mere jest,” she said, after a mo- 
ment’s silence. 

“ That is as you please,” returned Del Ferice, seriously. 
“ If you are willing to do your part, you may be sure 
that I will do mine.” 

“You cannot think I really meant what I said just 
now,” replied Donna Tullia. “It would be madness.” 

“ Why ? Am I halt, am I lame, am I blind ? Am I 
repulsively ugly ? Am I a pauper, that I should care for 
your money ? Have I not loved you — yes, loved you 
long and faithfully ? Am I too old ? Is there anything 
in the nature of things why I should not aspire to be 
your husband ? ” 

It was strange. He spoke calmly, as though enumerat- 
ing the advantages of a friend. Donna Tullia looked at 
him for a moment, and then laughed outright. 

“ Ho,” she said ; “ all that is very true. You may as- 
pire, as you call it. The question is, whether I shall 
aspire too. Of course, if we happened to agree in aspir- 
ing, we could be married to-morrow.” 

" Precisely,” answered Del Ferice, perfectly unmoved. 


266 


SARACINESCA. 


“ I am not proposing to marry you. I am arguing the 
case. There is this in the case which is perhaps outside 
the argument — this, that I am devotedly attached to you. 
The case is the stronger for that. I was only trying to 
demonstrate that the idea of our being married is not so 
unutterably absurd. You laughingly said you would 
marry me if I could accomplish something which would 
please you very much. I laughed also ; but now I seri- 
ously repeat my proposition, because I am convinced that 
although at first sight it may appear extremely humour- 
ous, on a closer inspection it will be found exceedingly 
practical. In union is strength.” 

Donna Tullia was silent for a moment, and her face grew 
grave. There was reason in what he said. She did not 
care for him — she had never thought of marrying him ; 
but she recognised the justice of what he said. It was 
clear that a man of his social position, received every- 
where and intimate with all her associates, might think 
of marrying her. He looked positively handsome since 
he was wounded ; he was accomplished and intelligent ; 
he had sufficient means of support to prevent him from 
being suspected of marrying solely for money, and he 
had calmly stated that he loved her. Perhaps he. did. 
It was flattering to Donna Tullia’ s vanity to believe him, 
and his acts had certainly not belied his words. He was 
by far the most thoughtful of all her admirers, and he 
affected to treat her always with a certain respect which 
she had never succeeded in obtaining from Valdarno and 
the rest. A woman who likes to be noisy, but is con- 
scious of being a little vulgar, is always flattered when a 
man behaves towards her with profound reverence. It 
will even sometimes cure her of her vulgarity. Donna 
Tullia reflected seriously upon what Del Ferice had said. 

“ I never had such a proposition made to me in my life,” 
she said. “ Of course you cannot think I regard it as a 
possible one, even now. You cannot think I am so base 
as to sell myself for the sake of revenging an insult once 
offered me. If I am to regard this as a proposal of mar- 


SARACINESCA. 


267 


riage, I must decline it with thanks. If it is merely a 
proposition for an alliance, I think the terms of the treaty 
are unequal.” 

Del Ferice smiled. 

“ I knew you well enough to know what your answer 
would be,” he said. “ I never insulted you by dream- 
ing that you would accept such a proposition. But as 
a subject for speculation it is very pleasant. It is de- 
lightful to me to think of being your husband ; it is 
equally delightful to you to think of the humiliation 
of an enemy. I took the liberty of uniting the two 
thoughts in one dream — a dream of unspeakable bliss for 
myself.” 

Donna Tullia’s gay humour returned. 

“ You have certainly amused me very well for a quarter 
of an hour with your dreams,” she answered. “ I wish 
you would tell me what you know of Don Giovanni. It 
must be very interesting if it can really seriously influ- 
ence his life.” 

“ I cannot tell you. The secret is too valuable.” 

“ But if the thing you know has such power, why do 
you not use it yourself ? You must hate him far more 
than I do.” 

“ I doubt that,” answered Del Ferice, with a cunning 
smile. “ I do not use it, I do not choose to strike the 
blow, because I do not care enough for retribution merely 
on my own account. I do not pretend to generosity, but 
I am not interested enough in him to harm him, though 
I dislike him exceedingly. We had a temporary settle- 
ment of our difficulties the other day, and we were both 
wounded. Poor Casalverde lost his head and did a fool- 
ish thing, and that cold-blooded villain Spicca killed him 
in consequence. It seems to me that there has been enough 
blood spilled in our quarrel. I am prepared to leave him 
alone so far as I am concerned. But for you it would be 
different. I could do something worse than kill him if 
I chose.” 

“ For me ? ” said Donna Tullia. “ What would you do 


268 


SARACINESCA. 


for me ? ” She smiled sweetly, willing to use all her per- 
suasion to extract his secret. 

“I could prevent Don Giovanni from marrying the 
Astrardente, as he intends to do,” he answered, looking 
straight at his companion. 

“ How in the world could you do that ? ” she asked, in 
great surprise. 

“ That, my dear friend, is my secret, as I said before. 
I cannot reveal it to you at present.” 

“You are as dark as the Holy Office,” said Donna 
Tullia, a little impatiently. “ What possible harm could 
it do if you told me ? ” 

“ What possible good either ? ” asked Del Ferice, in 
reply. “You could not use it as I could. You would 
gain no advantage by knowing it. Of course,” he added, 
with a laugh, “ if we entered into the alliance we were 
jesting about, it would be different.” 

“ You will not tell me unless I promise to marry you ? ” 

“Frankly, no,” he answered, still laughing. 

It exasperated Donna Tullia beyond measure to feel that 
he was in possession of what she so coveted, and to feel 
that he was bargaining, half in earnest, for her life in 
exchange for his secret. She was almost tempted for one 
moment to assent, to say she would marry him, so great 
was her curiosity ; it would be easy to break her promise, 
and laugh at him afterwards. But she was not a bad 
woman, as women of her class are considered. She had 
suffered a great disappointment, and her resentment was 
in proportion to her vanity. But she was not prepared to 
give a false promise for the sake of vengeance ; she was 
only bad enough to imagine such bad faith possible. 

“But you said you never seriously thought I could 
accept such an engagement,” she objected, not knowing 
what to say. 

“I did,” replied Del Ferice. “I might have added 
that I never seriously contemplated parting with my 
secret.” 

“There is nothing to be got from you,” said Donna 


SARACINESCA. 


269 


Tullia, in a tone of disappointment. “ I think that when 
you have nearly driven me mad with curiosity, you might 
really tell me something.” 

“ Ah no, dear lady,” answered her companion. “ You 
may ask anything of me but that — anything. You may 
ask that too, if you will sign the treaty I propose.” 

“You will drive me into marrying you out of sheer 
curiosity,” said Donna Tullia, with an impatient laugh. 

“I wish that were possible. I wish I could see my 
way to telling you as it is, for the thing is so curious that 
it would have the most intense interest for you. But it 
is quite out of the question.” 

“You should never have told me anything about it,” 
replied Madame Mayer. 

“Well, I will think about it,” said Del Ferice at last, as 
though suddenly resolving to make a sacrifice. “ I will 
look over some papers I have, and I will think about it. 
I promise you that if I feel that I can conscientiously 
tell you something of the matter, you may be sure that 
I will.” 

Donna Tullia’ s manner changed again, from impatience 
to persuasion. The sudden hope he held out to her was 
delicious to contemplate. She could not realise that Del 
Ferice, having once thoroughly interested her, could play 
upon her moods as on the keys of an instrument. If she 
had been less anxious that the story he told should be 
true, she might have suspected that he was practising 
upon her credulity. But she seized the idea of obtaining 
some secret influence over the life of Giovanni, and it 
completely carried her away. 

“You must tell me — I am sure you will,” she said, let- 
ting her kindest glance rest upon her companion. “Come 
and dine with me, — do you fast ? No — nor I. Come on 
Friday — will you ? ” 

“I shall be delighted,” answered Del Ferice, with a 
quiet smile of triumph. 

“ I will have the old lady, of course, so you cannot tell 
me at dinner j but she will go to sleep soon afterwards — 


270 


SARACINESCA. 


she always does. Come at seven. Besides, she is deaf, 
you know.” 

The old lady in question was the aged Countess whom 
Donna Tullia affected as a companion in her solitary 
magnificence. 

“ And now, will you take me back to the ball-room ? 
I have an idea that a partner is looking for me.” 

Del Derice left her dancing, and went home in his little 
coupe. He was desperately fatigued, for he was still very 
weak, and he feared lestvhis imprudence in going out so 
soon might bring on a relapse from his convalescence. 
Nevertheless, before he went to bed he dismissed Temis- 
tocle, and opened a shabby-looking black box which stood 
upon his writing-table. It was bound with iron, and was 
fastened by a patent lock which had frequently defied 
Temistocle’s ingenuity. From this repository he took a 
great number of papers, which were all neatly filed away 
and marked in the owner’s small and ornamented hand- 
writing. Beneath many packages of letters he found 
what he sought for, a long envelope containing several 
folded documents. 

He spread out the papers and read them carefully over. 

“ It is a very singular thing,” he said to himself ; “but 
there can be no doubt about it. There it is.” 

He folded the papers again, returned them to their 
envelope, and replaced the latter deep among the letters 
in his box. He then locked it, attached the key to a 
chain he wore about his neck, and went to bed, worn out 
with fatigue. 


CHAPTER XXL 

Del Ferice had purposely excited Donna Tullia’s curi- 
osity, and he meant before long to tell more than he had 
vouchsafed in his first confidence. But he himself trem- 
bled before the magnitude of what he had suddenly 


SAEACINESCA. 


271 


thought of doing, for the fear of Giovanni was in his 
heart. The temptation to boast to Donna Tullia that he 
had the means of preventing Giovanni from marrying 
was too strong; but when it had come to telling her 
what those means were, prudence had restrained him. 
He desired that if the scheme were put into execution it 
might be by some one else ; for, extraordinary as it was, 
he was not absolutely certain of its success. He was not 
sure of Donna Tullia’s discretion, either, until by a judi- 
cious withholding of the secret he had given her a suffi- 
cient idea of its importance. But on mature reflection he 
came to the conclusion that, even if she possessed the 
information he was able to give, she would not dare to 
mention it, nor even to hint at it. 

The grey light of Ash- Wednesday morning broke over 
Borne, and stole through the windows of Giovanni Sara- 
cinesca’s bedroom. Giovanni had not slept much, but his 
restlessness was due rather to his gladness at having per- 
formed the last of his social duties than to any disturbance 
of mind. All night he lay planning what he should do, — 
how he might reach his place in the mountains by a cir- 
cuitous route, leaving the general impression that he was 
abroad — and how, when at last he had got to Saracinesca 
unobserved, he would revel in the solitude and in the 
thought of being within half a day’s journey of Corona 
d’Astrardente. He was willing to take a great deal of 
trouble, for he did not wish people to know his where- 
abouts ; he would not have it said that he had gone into 
the country to be near Corona and to see her every day, as 
would certainly be said if his real movements were dis- 
covered. Accordingly, he fulfilled his programme to the 
letter. He left Borne on the afternoon of Ash-Wednesday 
for Florence ; there he visited several acquaintances who, 
he knew, would write to their friends in Borne of his ap- 
pearance ; from Florence he went to Paris, and gave out 
that he was going upon a shooting expedition in the Arc- 
tic regions, as soon as the weather was warm enough. As 
he was well known for a sportsman and a traveller, this 


272 


SARACINESCA. 


statement created no suspicion ; and when he finally left 
Paris, the newspapers and the gossips all said he had 
gone to Copenhagen on his way to the far north. In due 
time the statement reached Pome, and it was supposed 
that society had lost sight of Giovanni Saracinesca for at 
least eight months. It was thought that he had acted 
wuth great delicacy in absenting himself ; he would thus 
allow the first months of Corona’s mourning to pass be- 
fore formally presenting himself to society as her suitor. 
Considering the peculiar circumstances of the case, there 
would be nothing improper, from a social point of view, 
in his marrying Corona at the expiration of a year after 
her husband’s death. Of course he would marry her; 
there was no doubt of that — he had been in love with 
her so long, and now she was both free and rich. No 
one suspected that Giovanni, instead of being in Scandi- 
navia, was quietly established at Saracinesca, a day’s 
journey from Pome, busying himself with the manage- 
ment of the estate, and momentarily satisfied in feeling 
himself so near the woman he loved. 

Donna Tullia could hardly wait until the day when Del 
Ferice was coming to dinner: she was several times on 
the point of writing a note to ask him to come at once. 
But she wisely refrained, guessing that the more she 
pressed him the more difficulties he would make. At last 
he came, looking pale and worn — interesting, as Donna 
Tullia would have expressed it. The old Countess talked 
a great deal during dinner ; but as she was foo deaf to 
hear more than a quarter of what was said by the others, 
the conversation was not interesting. When the meal was 
over, she established herself in a comfortable chair in the 
little sitting-room, and took a book. After a few minutes, 
Donna Tullia suggested to Del Ferice that they should go 
into the drawing-room. She had received some new waltz- 
music from Vienna which she wanted to look over, and 
Ugo might help her. She was not a musician, but was 
fond of a cheerful noise, and played upon the piano with 
the average skill of a well-educated young woman of the 


SARACINESCA. 


273 


world. Of course the doors were left open between the 
drawing-room and the boudoir, where the Countess dozed 
over her book and presently fell asleep. 

Donna Tullia sat at the grand piano, and made Del 
Ferice sit beside her. She struck a few chords, and 
played a fragment of dance-music. 

“Of course you have heard that Don Giovanni is 
gone ? ” she asked, carelessly. “I suppose he is gone to 
Saracinesca ; they say there is a very good road between 
that and Astrardente.” 

“ I should think he would have more decency than to 
pursue the Duchessa in the first month of her mourning,” 
answered Del Ferice, resting one arm upon the piano, and 
supporting his pale face with his hand as he watched 
Donna Tullia’s fingers move upon the keys. 

“ Why ? He does not care what people say — why 
should he ? He will marry her when the year is out. 
W T hy should he care ? ” 

“ He can never marry her unless I choose to allow it,” 
said Del Ferice, quietly. 

“So you told me the other night,” returned Donna 
Tullia. “But you will allow him, of course. Besides, 
you could not stop it, after all. I do not believe that 
you could.” She leaned far back in her chair, her hands 
resting upon the keys without striking them, and she 
looked at Del Ferice with a sweet smile. There was a 
moment’s pause. 

“I have decided to tell you something,” he said at last, 
“upon one condition.” 

“Why make conditions ?” asked Donna Tullia, trying 
to conceal her excitement. 

“ Only one, that of secrecy. Will you promise never 
to mention what I am going to tell you without previously 
consulting me ? I do not mean a common promise ; I 
mean it to be an oath.” He spoke very earnestly. “ This 
is a very serious matter. We are playing with fire and 
with life and death. You must give me some guarantee 
that you will be secret.” 

R 


274 


SARACINESCA. 


His manner impressed Donna Tullia ; she had never 
seen him so much in earnest in her life. 

“ I will promise in any way you please,” she said. 

“Then say this,” he answered. “Say, ‘I swear and 
solemnly bind myself that I will faithfully keep the secret 
about to be committed to me ; and that if I fail to keep it I 
will atone by immediately marrying Ugo del Derice ’ ” 

“ That is absurd ! ” cried Donna Tullia, starting back 
from him. He did not heed her. 

“ ‘ And I take to witness of this oath the blessed mem- 
ory of my mother, the hope of the salvation of my soul, 
and this relic of the True Cross/ ” He pointed to the 
locket she wore at her neck, which she had often told 
him contained the relic he mentioned. 

“It is impossible ! ” she cried again. “I cannot swear 
so solemnly about such a matter. I cannot promise to 
marry you.” 

“ Then it is because you cannot promise to keep my 
secret,” he answered calmly. He knew her very well, 
and he believed that she would not break such an oath 
as he had dictated, under any circumstances. He did 
not choose to risk anything by her indiscretion. Donna 
Tullia hesitated, seeing that he was firm. She w T as tor- 
tured with curiosity beyond all endurance. 

“ I am only promising to marry you in case I reveal 
the secret ? ” she asked. He bowed assent. “ So that I 
am really only promising to be silent ? Well, I cannot 
understand why it should be solemn ; but if you wish it 
so, I will do it. What are the words ? ” 

He repeated them slowly, and she followed him. He 
watched her at every word, to be sure she overlooked 
nothing. 

“I, Tullia Mayer, swear and solemnly bind myself that 
I will faithfully keep the secret about to be committed 
to me ; and that if I fail to keep it, I will atone by imme- 
diately marrying Ugo del Derice” — her voice trembled 
nervously : “ and I take to witness of this oath the 
blessed memory of my mother, the hope of the salvation 


SAKACINESCA. 275 

of my soul, and this relic of the True Cross.” At the 
]ast words she took the locket in her fingers. 

“You understand that you have promised to marry me 
if you reveal my secret ? You fully understand that ? ” 
asked Del Fence. 

“ I understand it,” she answered hurriedly, as though 
ishamed of what she had done. “And now, the secret,” 
she added eagerly, feeling that she had undergone a cer- 
tain humiliation for the sake of what she so much 
coveted. 

“ Don Giovanni cannot marry the Duchessa d’ Astrar- 
dente, because ” — he paused a moment to give full weight 
to his statement — “ because Don Giovanni Saracinesca is 
married already.” 

“ What ! ” cried Donna Tullia, starting from her chair 
in amazement at the astounding news. 

“ It is quite true,” said Del Ferice, with a quiet smile. 
“ Calm yourself ; it is quite true. I know what you are 
thinking of — all Eome thought he was going to marry 
you.” 

Donna Tullia was overcome by the strangeness of the 
situation. She hid her face in her hands for a moment 
as she leaned forward over the piano. Then she sud- 
. denly looked up. 

“ What a hideous piece of villany ! ” she exclaimed, in 
a stifled voice. Then slowly recovering from the first 
shock of the intelligence, she looked at Del Ferice ; she 
was almost as pale as he. “ What proof have you ? ” she 
asked. 

“ I have the attested copy of the banns published by 
the priest who married them. That is evidence. More- 
over, the real book of banns exists, and Giovanni’s name 
is upon the parish register. I have also a copy of the 
certificate of the civil marriage, which is signed by Gio- 
vanni himself.” 

“Tell me more,” said Donna Tullia, eagerly. “How 
did you find it ? ” 

“It is very simple,” answered Del Ferice. “You may 


276 


SARACINESCA. 


go and see for yourself, if you do not mind making a 
short journey. Last summer I was wandering a little 
for my health’s sake, as I often do, and I chanced to be 
in the town of Aquila — you know, the capital of Abruzzi. 
One day I happened to go into the sacristy of one of the 
parish churches to see some pictures which are hung there. 
There had been a marriage service performed, and as the 
sacristan moved about explaining the pictures, he laid his 
hand upon an open book which looked like a register of 
some kind. I idly asked him what it was, and he showed it 
to me ; it was amusing to look at the names of the people, 
and I turned over the leaves curiously. Suddenly my atten- 
tion was arrested by a name I knew — ‘ Giovanni Saracin- 
esca,’ written clearly across the page, and below it, ‘ Felice 
Baldi,’ — the woman he had married. The date of the 
marriage was the 19th of June 1863. You remember, 
perhaps, that in that summer, in fact during the whole of 
that year, Don Giovanni was supposed to be absent upon 
his famous shooting expedition in Canada, about which 
he talks so much. It appears, then, that two years ago, 
instead of being in America, he was living in Aquila, 
married to Felice Baldi — probably some pretty peasant 
girl. I started at the sight of the names. I got permis- 
sion to have an attested copy of it made by a notary. I 
found the priest who had married them, but he could not 
remember the couple. The man, he said, was dark, he 
was sure ; the woman, he thought, had been fair. He 
married so many people in a year. These were not na- 
tives of Aquila; they had apparently come there from 
the country — perhaps had met. The banns — yes, he had 
the book of banns ; he had also the register of marriages 
from which he sometimes issued certified extracts. He 
was a good old man, and seemed ready to oblige me ; 
but his memory was very defective. He allowed me to 
take notary’s copies of the banns and the entry in the 
list, as well as of the register. Then I went to the office 
of the Stato Civile. You know that people do not sign 
the register in the church themselves; the names are 


SARACINESCA. 


277 


written clown by the priest. I wanted to see the sig- 
natures, and the book of civil marriages was shown 
to me. 

The handwriting was Giovanni’s, I am sure — larger, 
and a little less firm, but distinguishable at a glance. I 
took the copies for curiosity, and never said anything 
about it, but I have kept them. That is the history. 
Do you see how serious a matter it is ? ” 

“ Indeed, yes,” answered Donna Tullia, who had listened 
with intense interest to the story. “But what could have 
induced him to marry that woman ? ” 

“ One of those amiable eccentricities peculiar to his 
family,” replied Del Ferice, shrugging his shoulders. 
“The interesting thing would be to discover what be- 
came of Felice Baldi — Donna Felice Saracinesca, as I 
suppose she has a right to be called.” 

“ Let us find her — Giovanni’s wife,” exclaimed Donna 
Tullia, eagerly. “ Where can she be ? ” 

“Who knows?” ejaculated Del Ferice. “I would be 
curious to see her. The name of her native village is 
given, and the names of her parents. Giovanni described 
himself in the paper as ‘ of Naples, a landholder,’ and 
omitted somehow the details of his parentage. Nothing 
could be more vague ; everybody is a landholder, from the 
wretched peasant who cultivates one acre to their high- 
and-mightinesses the Princes of Saracinesca. Perhaps by 
going to the village mentioned some information might 
be obtained. He probably left her sufficiently provided 
for, and, departing on pretence of a day’s journey, never 
returned. He is a perfectly unscrupulous man, and thinks 
no more of this mad scrape than of shooting a chamois in 
the Tyrol. He knows she can never find him — never 
guessed who he really was.” 

“Perhaps she is dead,” suggested Donna Tullia, her 
face suddenly growing grave. 

“ Why ? He would not have taken the trouble to kill 
her — a peasant girl in the Abruzzi ! He would have had 
no difficulty in leaving her, and she is probably alive and 


278 


SARACINESCA. 


well at the present moment, perhaps the mother of the 
future Prince Saracinesca — who can tell ? ” 

“ But do you not see,” said Donna Tullia, “ that unless 
you have proof that she is alive, we have no hold upon 
him ? He may acknowledge the whole thing, and calmly 
inform us that she is dead.” 

“That is true; but even then he must show that she 
came to a natural end and was buried. Believe me, Gio- 
vanni would relinquish all intentions of marrying the 
Astrardente rather than have this scandalous story pub- 
lished.” 

“ I would like to tax him with it in a point-blank ques- 
tion, and watch his face,” said Donna Tullia, fiercely. 

“ Bemember your oath,” said Del Ferice. “ But he is 
gone now. You will not meet him for some months.” 

• “ Tell me, how could you make use of this knowledge, 
if you really wanted to prevent his marriage with the 
Astrardente ? ” 

“I would advise you to go to her and state the case. 
You need mention nobody. Any one who chooses may 
go to Aquila and examine the registers. I think that you 
could convey the information to her with as much com- 
mand of language as would be necessary.” 

“ I daresay I could,” she answered, between her teeth. 
“ What a strange chance it was that brought that regis- 
ter under your hand ! ” 

“ Heaven sends opportunities,” said Del Ferice, de- 
voutly; “ it is for man to make good use of them. 
Who knows but what you may make a brilliant use of 
this ? ” 

“I cannot, since I am bound by my promise,” said 
Donna Tullia. 

“No ; I am sure you will not think of doing it. But 
then, we might perhaps agree that circumstances made it 
advisable to act. Many months must pass before he can 
think of offering himself to her. It will be time enough 
to consider the matter then — to consider whether we 
should be justified in raising such a terrible scandal, in 


SARACLNESCA. 


279 


causing so much unhappiness to an innocent woman like 
the Duchessa, and to a worthless man like Don Giovanni. 
Think what a disgrace it would be to the Saracinesca to 
have it made public that Giovanni was openly engaged 
to marry a great heiress while already secretly married 
to a peasant woman ! ” 

“ It would indeed be horrible,” said Donna Tullia, with 
a disagreeable look in her blue eyes. “ Perhaps we should 
not even think of it,” she added, turning over the leaves 
of the music upon the piano. Then suddenly she added, 
“ Do you know that you have put me in a dreadful posi- 
tion by exacting that promise from me ? ” 

“No,” said Del Ferice, quietly. “ You wanted to hear 
the secret. You have heard it. You have nothing to do 
but to keep it to yourself.” 

“That is precisely ” She checked herself, and 

struck a loud chord upon the instrument. She had turned 
from Del Ferice, and could not see the smile upon his 
face, which flickered across the pale features and van- 
ished instantly. 

“ Think no more about it,” he said pleasantly. “ It is 
so easy to forget such stories when one resolutely puts 
them out of one’s mind.” 

Donna Tullia smiled bitterly, and was silent. She 
began playing from the sheet before her, with indifferent 
accuracy, but with more than sufficient energy. Del 
Ferice sat patiently by her side, turning over the leaves, 
and glancing from time to time at her face, which he 
really admired exceedingly. He belonged to the type 
of pale and somewhat phlegmatic men who frequently 
fall in love with women of sanguine complexion and 
robust appearance. Donna Tullia was a fine type of this 
class, and was called handsome, though she did not com- 
pare well with women of less pretension to beauty, but 
more delicacy and refinement. Del Ferice admired her 
greatly, however ; and, as has been said, he admired her 
fortune even more. He saw himself gradually approach- 
ing the goal of his intentions, and as he neared the desired 


280 


SARACINESCA. 


end he grew more and more cautious. He had played one 
of his strongest cards that night, and he was content to 
wait and let matters develop quietly, without any more 
pushing from him. The seed would grow, there was no 
fear of that, and his position was strong. He could wait 
quietly for the result. 

At the end of half an hour he excused himself upon the 
plea that he was still only convalescent, and was unable 
to bear the fatigue of late hours. Donna Tullia did not 
press him to stay, for she wished to be alone ; and when 
he was gone she sat long at the open piano, pondering 
upon what she had done, and even more upon what she 
had escaped doing. It was a hideous thought that if 
Giovanni, in all that long winter, had asked her to be his 
wife, she would readily have consented ; it was fearful 
to think what her position would have been towards Del 
Ferice, who would have been able by a mere word to 
annul her marriage by proving the previous one at 
Aquila. People do not trifle with such accusations, and 
he certainly knew what he was doing; she would have 
been bound hand and foot. Or supposing that Del 
Ferice had died of the wound he received in the duel, 
and his papers had been ransacked by his heirs, whoever 
they might be — these attested documents would have 
become public property. What a narrow escape Gio- 
vanni had had! And she herself, too, how nearly had 
she been involved in his ruin ! She liked to think that 
he had almost offered himself to her ; it flattered her, 
although she now hated him so cordially. She could 
not help admiring Del Fence’s wonderful discretion in 
so long concealing a piece of scandal that would have 
shaken Boman society to its foundations, and she trem- 
bled when she thought what would happen if she herself 
were ever tempted to reveal what she had heard. Del 
Ferice was certainly a man of genius — so quiet, and yet 
possessing such weapons; there was some generosity 
about him too, or he would have revenged himself for 
his wound by destroying Giovanni’s reputation. She 


SARACINESCA. 


281 


considered whether she could have kept her counsel so 
well in his place. After all, as he had said, the moment 
for using the documents had not yet come, for hitherto 
Giovanni had never proposed to marry any one. Perhaps 
this secret wedding in Aquila explained his celibacy; 
Del Ferice had perhaps misjudged him in saying that he 
was unscrupulous ; he had perhaps left his peasant wife, 
repenting of his folly, but it was perhaps on her account 
that he had never proposed to marry Donna Tullia ; he 
had, then, only been amusing himself with Corona. That 
all seemed likely enough — so likely, that it heightened 
the certainty of Del Fence’s information. 

A few days later, as Giovanni had intended, news began 
to reach Borne that he had been in Florence, and was 
actually in Paris ; then it was said that he was going 
upon a shooting expedition somewhere in the far north 
during the summer. It was like him, and in accordance 
Avith his tastes. He hated the quiet receptions at the 
great houses during Lent, to which, if he remained in 
Borne, he Avas obliged to go. He naturally escaped 
Avhen he could. But there Avas no escape for Donna 
Tullia, and after all she managed to extract some amuse- 
ment from these gatherings. She was the acknowledged 
centre of the more noisy set, and wherever she went, 
people who wanted to be amused, and were willing to 
amuse each other, congregated around her. On one of 
these occasions she met old Saracinesca. He did not 
go out much since his son had left ; but he seemed cheer- 
ful enough, and as he liked Madame Mayer, for some 
inscrutable reason, she rather liked him. Moreover, 
her interest in Giovanni, though uoav the very reverse of 
affectionate, made her anxious to know something of his 
movements. 

“You must be lonely since Don Giovanni has gone 
upon his travels again,” she said. 

“That is the reason I go out,” said the Prince. “It is 
not very gay, but it is better than nothing. It suggests 
cold meat served up after the dessert; but when people 


282 


SARACINESCA. 


are hungry, the order of their food is not of much im- 
portance.” 

“ Is there any news, Prince ? I want to be amused.” 

“ News ? No. The world is at peace, and consequently 
given over to sin, as it mostly is when it is resting from 
a fit of violence.” 

“You seem to be inclined to moralities this evening,” 
said Donna Tullia, smiling, and gently swaying the red 
fan she always carried. 

“Ami? Then I am growing old, I suppose. It is 
the privilege of old age to censure in others what it is 
no longer young enough to praise in itself. It is a bad 
thing to grow old, but it makes people good, or makes 
them think they are, which in their own eyes is precisely 
the same thing.” 

“ How delightfully cynical ! ” 

“ Doggish ? ” inquired the Prince, with a laugh. “ I 
have heard it said by scholars, that cynical means dog- 
gish in Greek. The fable of the dog in the horse’s man- 
ger was invented to define the real cynic — the man who 
neither enjoys life himself nor will allow other people to 
enjoy it. I am not such a man. I hope you, for in- 
stance, will enjoy everything that comes in your way.” 

“Even the cold meat after the dessert which you spoke 
of just now?” asked Donna Tullia. “Thank you — I 
will try; perhaps you can help me.” 

“ My son despised it,” said Saracinesca. “ He is gone 
in search of fresh pastures of sweets.” 

“ Leaving you behind.” 

“ Somebody once said that the wisest thing a son could 
do was to get rid of his father as soon as possible ” 

“ Then Don Giovanni is a wise man,” returned Donna 
Tullia. 

“ Perhaps. However, he asked me to accompany him.” 

“You refused ? ” 

“Of course. Such expeditions are good enough for 
boys. I dislike Elorence, I am not especially fond of 
Paris, and I detest the North Pole. I suppose you have 


SARACINESCA. 


283 


seen from the papers that he is going in that direction ? 
It is like him, he hankers after originality, I suppose. 
Being born in the south, he naturally goes to the extreme 
north.” 

“ He will write you very interesting letters, I should 
think,” remarked Donna Tullia. “Is he a good corre- 
spondent ? ” 

“Remarkably, for he never gives one any trouble. He 
sends his address from time to time, and draws frequently 
on his banker. His letters are not so full of interest as 
might be thought, as they rarely extend over five lines ; 
but on the other hand it does not take long to read them, 
which is a blessing.” 

“You seem to be an affectionate parent,” said Donna 
Tullia, with a laugh. 

“If you measure affection by the cost of postage-stamps, 
you have a right to be sarcastic. If you measure it in 
any other way, you are wrong. I could not help loving 
any one so like myself as my son. It would show a 
detestable lack of appreciation of my own gifts.” 

“I do not think Don Giovanni so very like you,” said 
Donna Tullia, thoughtfully. 

“ Perhaps you do not know him so well as I do,” remarked 
the Prince. “ Where do you see the greatest difference ? ” 

“ I think you talk better, and I think you are more — 
not exactly more honest, perhaps, but more straight- 
forward.” 

“I do not agree with you,” said old Saracinesca, quickly. 
“ There is no one alive who can say they ever knew Gio- 
vanni approach in the most innocent way to a distortion 
of truth. I daresay you have discovered, however, that 
he is reticent ; he can hold his tongue ; he is no chatterer, 
no parrot, my son.” 

“ Indeed he is not,” answered Donna Tullia, and the 
reply pacified the old man ; but she herself was thinking 
what supreme reticence Giovanni had shown in the matter 
of his marriage, and she wondered whether the Prince 
had ever heard of it. 


284 


SARACINESCA. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

Anastase Gouache worked hard at the Cardinal’s por- 
trait, and at the same time did his best to satisfy Donna 
Tullia. The latter, indeed, was not easily pleased, and 
Gouache found it hard to instil into his representation of 
her the precise amount of poetry she required, without 
doing violence to his own artistic sense of fitness. But the 
other picture progressed rapidly. The Cardinal was a 
restless man, and after the first two or three sittings, de- 
sired nothing so much as to be done with them altogether. 
Anastase amused him, it is true, and the statesman soon 
perceived that he had made a conquest of the young 
man’s mind, and that, as Giovanni Saracinesca had pre- 
dicted, he had helped Gouache to come to a decision. 
He was not prepared, however, for the practical turn that 
decision immediately took, and he was just beginning to 
wish the sittings at an end when Anastase surprised him 
by a very startling announcement. 

As usual, they were in the Cardinal’s study ; the states- 
man was silent and thoughtful, and Gouache was working 
with all his might. 

“ I have made up my mind,” said the latter, suddenly. 

“ Concerning what, my friend ? ” inquired the great man, 
rather absently. 

“ Concerning everything, Eminence,” answered Gouache 
— “ concerning politics, religion, life, death, and every thing 
else which belongs to my career. I am going to enlist 
with the Zouaves.” 

The Cardinal looked at him for a moment, and then 
broke into a low laugh. 

“ Extremis malis extrema remedial” he exclaimed. 

“ Precisely — aux grands maux les grands remMes, as we 
say. I am going to join the Church militant. I am con- 
vinced that it is the best thing an honest man can do. I 
like fighting, and I like the Church — therefore I will fight 
for the Church.” 


SAKACINESCA. 


285 


“Very good logic, indeed,” answered the Cardinal. But 
he looked at Anastase, and marking his delicate features 
and light frame, he almost wondered how the lad would 
look in the garb of a soldier. “Very good logic; but, 
my dear Monsieur Gouache, what is to become of your 
art ? ” 

“I shall not be mounting guard all day, and the Zouaves 
are allowed to live in their own lodgings. I will live in 
my studio, and paint when I am not mounting guard.” 

“ And my portrait ? ” inquired Cardinal Antonelli, much 
amused. 

“ Your Eminence will doubtless be kind enough to man- 
age that I may have liberty to finish it.” 

“ You could not put off enlisting for a week, I suppose ? ” 

Gouache looked annoyed ; he hated the idea of waiting. 

“I have taken too long to make up my mind already,” 
he replied. “I must make the plunge at once. I am 
convinced — your Eminence has convinced me — that I 
have been very foolish.” 

“I certainly never intended to convince you of that,” 
remarked the Cardinal, with a smile. 

“Very foolish,” repeated Gouache, not heeding the in- 
terruption. “ I have talked great nonsense, — I scarcely 
know why — perhaps to try and find where the sense really 
lay. I have dreamed so many dreams, so long, that I 
sometimes think I am morbid. All artists are morbid, I 
suppose. It is better to do anything active than to lose 
one’s self in the slums of a sickly imagination.” 

“ I agree with, you,” answered the Cardinal ; “ but I do 
not think you suffered from a sickly imagination, — I 
should rather call it abundant than sickly. Frankly, I 
should be sorry to think that in following this new idea 
you were in any way injuring the great career which, I 
am sure, is before you ; but, on the other hand, I cannot 
help wishing that a greater number of young men would 
follow your example.” 

“Your Eminence approves, then ? ” 

“ Do you think you will make a good soldier ? ” 


286 


SARACINESCA. 


“ Other artists have been good soldiers. There was 
Cellini ” 

“ Benvenuto Cellini said he made a good soldier; he 
said it himself, but his reputation for veracity in other 
matters was doubtful, to say the least. If he did not 
shoot the Connetable de Bourbon, it is very certain that 
some one else did. Besides, a soldier in our times should 
be a very different kind of man from the self-armed citi- 
zen of the time of Clement the Eighth and the aforesaid 
Connetable. You will have to wear a uniform and sleep 
on boards in a guard-house ; you will have to be up early 
to drill, and up late mounting guard, in wind and rain and 
cold. It is hard work ; I do not believe you have the 
constitution for it. Nevertheless, the intention is good. 
You can try it, and if you fall ill I will see that you have 
no difficulty in returning to your artist life.” 

“I do not mean to give it up,” replied Gouache, in a 
tone of conviction. “ And as for my health, I am as strong 
as any one.” 

“ Perhaps,” said the Cardinal, doubtfully. “ And when 
are you going to join the corps ? ” 

“In about an hour,” said Gouache, quietly. 

And he kept his word. But he had told no one, 
save the Cardinal, of his intention ; and for a day or two, 
though he passed many acquaintances in the street, no 
one recognised Anastase Gouache in the handsome young 
soldier with his grey Turco uniform, a red sash round 
his slender waist, and a small kepi set jauntily upon one 
side. 

It was one of the phenomena of those times. For- 
eigners swarmed in Rome, and many of them joined the 
cosmopolitan corps — gentlemen, noblemen, artists, men of 
the learned professions, adventurers, duellists driven from 
their country in a temporary exile, enthusiasts, strolling 
Irishmen, men of all sorts and conditions. But, take 
them all in all, they were a fine set of fellows, who set 
no value whatever on their lives, and who, as a whole, 
fought for an idea, in the old crusading spirit. There 


SARACINESCA. 


287 


were many who, like Gouache, joined solely from convic- 
tion ; and there were few instances indeed of any who, 
having joined, deserted. It often happened that a stran- 
ger came to home for a mere visit, and at the end of a 
month surprised his friends by appearing in the grey 
uniform. You had met him the night before at a ball in 
the ordinary garb of civilisation, covered with cotillon 
favours, waltzing like a madman ; the next morning he 
entered the Cafe de Rome in a braided jacket open at 
the throat, and told you he was a soldier — a private sol- 
dier, who touched his cap to every corporal of the French 
infantry, and was liable to be locked up for twenty-four 
hours if he was late to quarters. 

Donna Tullia’s portrait was not quite finished, and 
Gouache had asked for one or two more sittings. Three 
days after the artist had taken his great resolution, 
Madame Mayer and Del Ferice entered his studio. He 
had had no difficulty in being at liberty at the hour of 
the sitting, and had merely exchanged his jacket for an 
old painting-coat, not taking the trouble to divest him- 
self of the remainder of his uniform. 

“ Where have you been all this time ? ” asked Donna 
Tullia, as she lifted the curtain and entered the studio. 
He had kept out of her way during the past few days. 

“ Good heavens, Gouache ! ” cried Del Ferice, starting 
back, as he caught sight of the artist’s grey trousers and 
yellow gaiters. “ What is the meaning of this comedy ? ” 

“ What ? ” asked Gouache, coolly. Then, glancing at 
his legs, he answered, “Oh, nothing. I have turned 
Zouave — that is all. Will you sit down, Donna Tullia ? 
I was waiting for you.” 

“ Turned Zouave ! ” exclaimed Madame Mayer and Del 
Ferice in a breath. “ Turned Zouave ! ” 

“Well?” said Gouache, raising his eyebrows and 
enjoying their surprise. “Well — why not?” 

Del Ferice struck a fine attitude, and, laying one hand 
upon Donna Tullia’s arm, whispered hoarsely in her 
ear — 


288 


SABACINESCA. 


“ Siamo traditi — we are betrayed ! ” he said. Where- 
upon Donna Tullia turned a little pale. 

“ Betrayed ! ” she repeated, “ and by Gouache ! ” 
Gouache laughed, as he drew out the battered old 
carved chair on which Madame Mayer was accustomed 
to sit when he painted. 

“Calm yourself, Madame,’’ he said. “I have not the 
least intention of betraying you. I have made a counter- 
revolution — but I am perfectly frank. I will not tell of 
the ferocious deeds I have heard discussed.” 

Del Ferice scowled and drew back, partly acting, 
partly in earnest. It lay in his schemes to make Donna 
Tullia believe herself involved in a genuine plot, and 
from this point of view he felt that he must pretend the 
greatest horror and surprise. On the other hand, he 
knew that Gouache had been painting the Cardinal’s 
portrait, and guessed that the statesman had acquired a 
strong influence over the artist’s mind — an influence 
which was already showing itself in a way that looked 
dangerous. It had never struck him until quite lately 
that Anastase, a republican by descent and conviction, 
could suddenly step into the reactionary camp. 

“Pardon me, Donna Tullia,” said Ugo, in serious tones, 
“pardon me — but I think we should do well to leave 
Monsieur Gouache to the contemplation of his new career. 

This is no place for us — the company of traitors ” 

“ Look here, Del Ferice,” said Gouache, suddenly going 
up to him and looking him in the face, — “ do you seri- 
ously believe that anything you have ever said in this 
room is worth betraying ? or, if you do, do you really 
think that I would betray it ? ” 

“ Bah ! ” exclaimed Donna Tullia, interposing, “ it is 
nonsense ! Gouache is a gentleman, of course — and 
besides, I mean to have my portrait, politics or no poli- 
tics.” 

'With this round statement Donna Tullia sat down, and 
Del Ferice had no choice but to follow her example. He 
was profoundly disgusted, but he saw at a glance that it 


SARACINESCA. 


289 


would be hopeless to attempt to dissuade Madame Mayer 
when she had once made up her mind. 

“ And now you can tell us all about it,” said Donna 
Tullia. “ What, in the name of all that is senseless, has 
induced you to join the Zouaves ? It really makes me 
very nervous to see you.” 

“ That lends poetry to your expression,” interrupted 
Gouache. “ I wish you were always nervous. You really 
want to know why I am a Zouave ? It is very simple. 
You must know that I always follow my impulses.” 

“ Impulses!” ejaculated Del Ferice, moodily. 

“ Yes ; because my impulses are always good, — ^whereas 
when I reflect much, my judgment is always bad. I felt 
a strong impulse to wear the grey uniform, so I walked 
into the recruiting office and wrote my name down.” 

“ I feel a strong impulse to walk out of your studio, 
Monsieur Gouache,” said Donna Tullia, with a rather 
nervous laugh. 

“ Then allow me to tell you that* whereas my impulses 
are good, yours are not,” replied Anastase, quietly paint- 
ing. “ Because I have a new dress ” 

“ And new convictions,” interrupted Del Ferice ; “ you 
who were always arguing about convictions ! ” 

“ I had none ; that is the reason I argued about them. 
I have plenty now — I argue no longer.” 

“You are wise,” retorted Ugo. “Those you have got 
will never bear discussion.” 

“Excuse me,” answered Gouache; “if you will take the 
trouble to be introduced to his Eminence Cardinal 
Antonelli ” 

Donna Tullia held up her hands in horror. 

“ That horrible man ! That Mephistopheles ! ” she cried. 

“ That Maechiavelli ! That arch-enemy of our holy 
Liberty! ” exclaimed Del Ferice, in theatrical tones. 

“ Exactly,” answered Gouache. “ If he could be in- 
duced to devote a quarter of an hour of his valuable time 
to talking with you, he would turn your convictions round 
his finger.” 

s 


290 


SARACINESCA. 


“ This is too much ! ” cried Del Ferice, angrily. 

“I think it is very amusing/’ said Donna Tullia. 

“ What a pity that all Liberals are not artists, whom his 
Eminence could engage to paint his portrait and be con- 
verted at so much an hour ! ” 

Gouache smiled quietly, and went on with his work. 

“So he told you to go and turn Zouave,” remarked 
Donna Tullia, after a pause, “ and you submitted like a 
lamb.” 

“ So far was the Cardinal from advising me to turn 
soldier, that he expressed the greatest surprise when I 
told him of my intention,” returned Gouache, rather 
coldly. 

“ Indeed it is enough to take away even a cardinal’s 
breath,” answered Madame Mayer. “I was never, never 
so surprised in my life ! ” 

Gouache stood up to get a view of his work, and Donna 
Tullia looked at him critically. 

“ Tiens ! ” she exclaimed, “ it is rather becoming — what 
small ankles you have, Gouache ! ” 

Anastase laughed. It was impossible to be grave in 
the face of such utterly frivolous inconsistency. 

“You will allow your expression to change so often, 
Donna Tullia ! It is impossible to catch it.” 

“ Like your convictions,” murmured Del Ferice from 
his corner. Indeed Ugo did not know what to make of 
the scene. He had miscalculated the strength of Donna 
Tullia’s fears as compared with her longing to possess a 
flattering portrait of herself. Rather than leave the pic- 
ture unfinished, she exhibited a cynical indifference to 
danger which would have done honour to a better man 
than Del Ferice. Perhaps, too, she understood Gouache 
well enough to know that he might be trusted. Indeed 
any one would have trusted Gouache. Even Del Ferice 
was less disturbed at the possibility of the artist’s repeat- 
ing any of the trivial liberal talk which he had listened 
to, than at the indifference to discovery shown by Donna 
Tullia. To Del Ferice, the whole thing had been but a 


SARACINESCA. 


291 


harmless play ; but he wanted Madame Mayer to believe 
that it had all been in solemn earnest, and that she was 
really implicated in a dangerous plot ; for it gave him a 
stronger hold upon her for his own ends. 

“ So you are going to fight for Pio Nono,” remarked 
Ugo, scornfully, after another pause. 

“ I am,” replied Gouache. “ And, no offence to you, my 
friend, if I meet you in a red shirt among the Garibaldini, 
I will kill you. It would be very unpleasant, so I hope 
that you will not join them.” 

“ Take care, Del Ferice,” laughed Donna Tullia; “your 
life is in danger ! You had better join the Zouaves in- 
stead.” 

“I cannot paint his Eminence’s portrait,” returned 
Ugo, with a sneer, “ so there is no chance of that.” 

“ You might assist him with wholesome advice, I should 
think,” answered Gouache. “ I have no doubt you could 
tell him much that would be very useful.” 

“ And turn traitor to ” 

“ Hush ! Do not be so silly, Del Ferice,” interrupted 
Donna Tullia, who began to fear that Del Fence’s taunts 
would make trouble. She had a secret conviction that it 
would not be good to push the gentle Anastase too far. 
He was too quiet, too determined, and too serious not to 
be a little dangerous if roused. 

“ Do not be absurd,” she repeated. “ Whatever Gou- 
ache may choose to do, he is a gentleman, and I will not 
have you talk of traitors like that. He does not quarrel 
with you — why do you try to quarrel with him ? ” 

“ I think he has done quite enough to justify a quarrel, 
I am sure,” replied Del Ferice, moodily. 

“My dear sir,” said Gouache, desisting from his work 
and turning towards Ugo, “Madame is quite right. I not 
only do not quarrel, but I refuse to be quarrelled with. 
You have my most solemn assurance that whatever has 
previously, passed here, whatever I have heard said by 
you, by Donna Tullia, by Valdarno, by any of your 
friends, I regard as an inviolable secret. You formerly 


292 


SARACINESCA. 


i 


said I had no convictions, and you were right. I had 
none, and I listened to your exposition of your own with 
considerable interest. My case is changed. I need not 
tell you what I believe, for I wear the uniform of a Papal 
Zouave. When I put it on, I certainly did not contem- 
plate offending you ; I do not wish to offend you now — I 
only beg that you will refrain from offending me. For my 
part, I need only say that henceforth I do not desire to 
take a part in your councils. If Donna Tullia is satisfied 
with her portrait, there need be no further occasion for 
our meeting. If, on the contrary, we are to meet again, 
I beg that we may meet on a footing of courtesy and 
mutual respect.” 

It was impossible to say more ; and Gouache’s speech 
terminated the situation so far as Del Ferice was con- 
cerned. Donna Tullia smilingly expressed her approval. 

“ Quite right, Gouache,” she said. “You know it 
would be impossible to leave the portrait as it is now. 
The mouth, you know — you promised to do something to 
it — just the expression, you know.” 

Gouache bowed his head a little, and set to work again 
without a word. Del Ferice did not speak again during 
the sitting, but sat moodily staring at the canvas, at 
Donna Tullia, and at the floor. It was not often that he 
was moved from his habitual suavity of manner, but 
Gouache’s conduct had made him feel particularly un- 
comfortable. 

The next time Donna Tullia came to sit, she brought 
her old Countess, and Del Ferice did not appear. The 
portrait was ultimately finished to the satisfaction of all 
parties, and was hung in Donna Tullia’s drawing-room, 
to be admired and criticised by all her friends. But 
Gouache rejoiced when the thing was finally removed 
from his studio, for he had grown to hate it, and had been 
almost willing to flatter it out of all likeness to Madame 
Mayer, for the sake of not being eternally confronted by 
the cold stare of her blue eyes. He finished the Cardi- 
nal’s portrait too ^ and the statesman not only paid for it 




SARACINESCA. 


293 


with unusual liberality, but gave the artist what he called 
a little memento of the long hours they had spent to- 
gether. He opened one of the lockers in his study, and 
from a small drawer selected an ancient ring, in which was 
set a piece of crystal with a delicate intaglio of a figure 
of Victory. He took Gouache’s hand and slipped the 
ring upon his finger. He had taken a singular liking to 
Anastase. 

“Wear it as a little souvenir of me,” he said kindly. 
“ It is a Victory ; you are a soldier now, so I pray that 
victory may go with you ; and I give Victory herself into 
your hands.” 

“And I,” said Gouache, “will pray that it may be a 
symbol in my hand of the real victories you are to win.” 

“ Only a symbol,” returned the Cardinal, thoughtfully. 
“Nothing but a symbol. I was not born to conquer, but 
to lead a forlorn-hope — to deceive vanquished men with a 
hope not real, and to deceive the victors with an unreal 
fear. Nevertheless, my friend,” he added, grasping Gou- 
ache’s hand, and fixing upon him his small bright eyes, — 
“ nevertheless, let us fight, fight — fight to the very end ! ” 

“We will fight to the end, Eminence,” said Gouache. 
He was only a private of Zouaves, and the man whose 
hand he held was great and powerful ; but the same spirit 
was in the hearts of both, the same courage, the same de- 
votion to the failing cause — and both kept their words, 
each in his own way. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

Astrardente was in some respects a picturesque place. 
The position of the little town gave it a view in both 
directions from where it stood ; for it was built upon a 
precipitous eminence rising suddenly out of the midst of 
the narrow strip of fertile land, the long and rising valley 


294 


SARACINESOA. 


which, from its lower extremity, conducted by many cir- 
cuits to the Roman Campagna, and which ended above in 
the first rough passes of the lower Abruzzi. The base of 
the town extended into the vineyards and olive-orchards 
which surrounded the little hill on all sides ; and the sum- 
mit of it was crowned by the feudal palace-castle — an 
enormous building of solid stone, in the style of the fifteenth 
century. Upon the same spot had formally stood a rugged 
fortress, but the magnificent ideas of the Astrardente pope 
had not tolerated such remains of barbarism; the ancient 
stronghold had been torn down, and on its foundations rose 
a gigantic mansion, consisting of a main palace, with great 
balconies and columned front, overlooking the town, and 
of two massive wings leading back like towers to the edge 
of the precipitous rock to northwards. Between these 
wings a great paved court formed a sort of terrace, open 
upon one side, and ornamented within with a few antique 
statues dug up upon the estates, and with numerous plants, 
which the old duke had caused to be carefully cultivated 
in vases, and which were only exposed upon the terrace 
during the warm summer months. The view* from the 
court was to the north — that is to say, down the valley, 
comprehending ranges of hills that seemed to cross and 
recross into the extreme distance, their outlines being 
each time less clearly defined, as the masses in each suc- 
ceeding range took a softer purple hue. 

Within, the palace presented a great variety of apart- 
ments. There were suites of vaulted rooms upon the lower 
floor, frescoed in the good manner of the fifteenth cen- 
tury ; there were other suites above, hung with ancient * 
tapestry and furnished with old-fashioned marble tables, 
and mirrors in heavily gilt frames, and one entire wing 
had been lately fitted up in the modern style. In this 
part of the house Corona established herself with Sister 
Gabrielle, and began to lead a life of regular occupations 
and profound retirement, which seemed to be rather a con- 
tinuation of her existence in the convent where she had 
been educated as a girl, than to form any part in the life 


SARACINESCA. 


295 


of the superb Duchessa d’Astrardente, who for five years 
had been one of the most conspicuous persons in society. 
Every morning at eight o’clock the two ladies, always 
clad in deep black, attended the Mass which was celebrated 
for them in the palace chapel. Then Corona walked for 
an hour with her companion upon the terrace, or, if it 
rained, beneath the covered balconies upon the south side. 
The morning hours she passed in solitude, reading such 
books of devotion and serious matter as most suited the 
sad temper of her mind ; precisely at mid-day she and 
Sister Gabrielle breakfasted together in a sort of solemn 
state ; and at three o’clock the great landau, with its black 
horses and mourning liveries, stood under the inner gate. 
The two ladies appeared five minutes later, and by a ges- 
ture Corona indicated whether she would be driven up or 
down the valley. The dashing equipage descended the 
long smooth road that wound through the town, and re- 
turned invariably at the end of two hours, again ascended 
the tortuous way, and disappeared beneath the dark en- 
trance. At six o’clock dinner was served, with the same 
solemn state as attended the morning meal ; Corona and 
Sister Gabrielle remained together until ten, and the day 
was over. There was no more variation in the routine of 
their lives than if they had been moved by a machinery 
connected with the great castle clock overhead, which 
chimed the hours and the quarters by day and night, and 
regulated the doings of the town below. 

But in spite of this unchanging sequence of similar 
habit, the time passed pleasantly for Corona. She had 
had too much of the brilliant lights and the buzzing din 
v of society for the last five years, too much noise, too much 
idle talk, too much aimless movement ; she needed rest, 
too, from the constant strain of her efforts to fulfil her 
self-imposed duties towards her husband — most of all, 
perhaps, she required a respite from the sufferings she 
had undergone through her stifled love for Giovanni Sara- 
cinesca. All this she found in the magnificent calm of 
the life at Astrardente. She meditated long upon the 


296 


SARACINESCA. 


memory of her husband, recalling lovingly those things 
which had been most worthy in him, willingly forgetting 
his many follies and vanities and moments of petulance. 
She went over in her mind the many and varied scenes of 
the past, and learned to love the sweet and silent solitude 
of the present by comparison of it with all the useless 
and noisy activity of the world she had for a time aban- 
doned. She had not expected to find anything more than 
a passive companion in Sister Gabrielle ; but in the course 
of their daily converse she discovered in her a character 
of extreme refinement and quick perception, a depth of 
human sympathy and a breadth of experience which 
amazed her, and made her own views of things seem 
small. The Sister was devout and rigid in the observ- 
ance of the institutions of her order, in so far as she 
was able to follow out the detail of religious regulation 
without interfering with the convenience of her com- 
panion ; but in her conversation she showed an intimate 
knowledge of character which was a constant source of 
pleasure to Corona, who told the Sister long stories of 
people she had known for the sake of hearing her admir- 
able comments upon social questions. 

But besides her reading and her long hours of medita- 
tion and her talks with Sister Gabrielle, Corona found 
occupation in the state of the town below her residence. 
She attempted once or twice to visit the poor cottages, in 
the hope of doing some good j but she found that she was 
such an object of holy awe to the inmates that they were 
speechless in her presence, or became so nervous in their 
desire to answer her questions, that the information she 
was able to obtain concerning their troubles was too vague 
to be of any use. 

The Italian peasant is not the same in all parts of the 
Country, as is generally supposed ; and although the Tus- 
can, who is constantly brought into familiar contact with 
his landlord, and acquires a certain pleasant faith in him, 
grows eloquent upon the conditions of his being, the 
same is not true of the rougher race that labours in the 


SARACINESCA. 


297 


valleys of the Sabine and the Samnite hills. The peasant 
of the Agro Romano is indeed capable of civilisation, 
and he is able to understand his superiors, provided that 
he is gradually accustomed to seeing them : unfortunately 
this occurs but rarely. Many of the great Roman land- 
holders spend a couple of months of every year upon 
their estates : old Astrardente had in his later years gone 
to considerable expense in refitting and repairing the 
castle, but he had done little for the town. Men like 
the Saracinesca, however, were great exceptions at that 
time; though they travelled much abroad, they often 
remained for many months in their rugged old fortress. 
They knew the inhabitants of their lands far and wide, 
and were themselves not only known but loved; they 
spent their money in improving the condition of their 
peasants, in increasing the area of their forests, and in 
fostering the fertility of the soil, but they cared nothing 
for adorning the grey stone walls of their ancestors’ 
stronghold. It had done well enough for a thousand 
years, it would do well enough still ; it had stood firm 
against fierce sieges in the dark ages of the Roman bar- 
on ry, it could afford to stand unchanged in its monu- 
mental strength against the advancing sea of nineteenth- 
century civilisation. They themselves, father and son, 
were content with such practical improvements as they 
could introduce for the good of their people and the en- 
riching of their land; a manly race, despising luxury, 
they cared little whether their home was thought com- 
fortable by the few guests they occasionally invited to 
spend a week with them. They saw much of the peas- 
antry, and went daily among them, understanding their 
wants, and wisely promoting in their minds the belief 
that land cannot prosper unless both landlord and tenant 
do their share. 

But Astrardente was a holding of a very different kind, 
and Corona, in her first attempts at understanding the 
state of things, found herself stopped by a dead wall of 
silence, beyond which she guessed that there lay an 


298 


SARACINESCA. 


undiscovered land of trouble. She knew next to nothing 
of the condition of her people; she only imperfectly 
understood the relations in which they actually stood to 
herself, the extent of her power over them, and of their 
power over her. The mysteries of emphyteusis , emphy- 
teuma, and emphyteuta were still hidden to her, though 
her steward spoke of them with surprising loquacity and 
fluency. She laboured hard to understand the system 
upon which her tenants held their lands from her, and it 
was some time before she succeeded. It is easier to ex- 
plain the matter at once than to follow Corona in her 
attempts to comprehend it. 

To judge from the terms employed, the system of hold- 
ings common in the Pontifical States has descended with- 
out interruption from the time of the Romans to the 
present day. As in old Roman law,, emphyteusis, now 
spelt emjiteuse, means the possession of rights over 
another person’s land, capable of transmission by inher- 
itance ; and to-day, as under the Romans, the holder of 
such rights is called the emphyteuta , or emfiteuta . How 
the Romans came to use Greek words in their tenant-law 
does not belong to the matter in hand ; these words are 
the only ones now in use in this part of Italy, and they 
are used precisely as they were in remote times. 

A tenant may acquire rights of emjiteuse directly from 
the owner of the land, like an ordinary lease ; or he may 
acquire them by settlement — “ squatting,” as the popular 
term is. Wherever land ia lying waste, any one may 
establish himself upon it and cultivate it, on condition of 
paying to the owner a certain proportion of the yield of 
the land — generally one quarter — either in kind or in 
money. The landlord may, indeed, refuse the right of 
settlement in the first instance, which would very rarely 
occur, since most people who own barren tracts of rock & 
and heath are only too glad to promote any kind of culti- 
vation. But when the landlord has once allowed the 
right, the right itself is constituted thereby into a pos- 
session! of which the peasant may dispose as he pleases, 


SARACINESCA. 


299 


even by selling it to another. The law provides, how- 
ever, that in case of transfers by sale, the landlord shall 
receive one year’s rent in kind or in money in addition to 
the rent due, and this bonus is paid jointly by the buyer 
and the seller according to agreement. Such holdings 
are inherited from father to son for many generations, 
and are considered to be perpetual leases. The landlord 
cannot expel a tenant except for non-payment of rent 
during three consecutive years. In actual fact, the right 
of the emfiteuta in the soil is far more important than 
that of the landlord ; for the tenant can cheat his land- 
lord as much as he pleases, whereas the injustice of the 
law provides that under no circumstances whatsoever 
shall the landlord cheat the tenant. In actual fact, also, 
the rents are universally paid in kind, and the peasant 
eats what remains of the produce, so that very little cash 
is seen in the land. 

Corona discovered that the income she enjoyed from 
the lands of Astrardente was collected by the basketful 
from the threshing-floors, and by the barrel from the vine- 
yards of some two hundred tenants. It was a serious mat- 
ter to gather from two hundred threshing-floors precisely 
a quarter of the grain threshed, and from fifty or sixty 
vineyards precisely a quarter of the wine made in each. 
The peasants all made their wine at the same time, and 
all threshed their grain in the same week. If the agent 
was not on the spot during the threshing and the vintage, 
the peasant had no difficulty whatever in hiding a large 
quantity of his produce. As the rent was never fixed, 
but depended solely on the yield of the year, it was pre- 
eminently to the advantage of the tenant to throw dust 
in the eyes of the landlord whenever he got a chance. 
The landlord found the business of watching his tenants 
tedious and unprofitable, and naturally resorted to the 
crowning evil of agricultural evils — the employment of a 
rent-farmer. The latter, at all events, was willing to pay 
a fixed sum yearly ; and if the sum paid was generally 
considerably below the real value of the rents, the arrange- 


300 


SARACINESCA. 


ment at least assured a fixed income to the landlord, with 
the certainty of getting it without trouble to himself. The 
middleman then proceeded to grind the tenants at his 
leisure and discretion in order to make the best of his 
bargain. The result was, that while the tenant starved 
and the landlord got less than his due in consideration of 
being saved from annoyance, the middleman gradually 
accumulated money. 

Upon this system nine-tenths of the land in the Pon- 
tifical States was held, and much of the same land is so 
held to-day, in spite of the modern tenant-law, for reasons 
which will be clearly explained in another part of this 
history. Corona saw and understood that the evil was 
very great. She discussed the matter with her steward, 
or ministro as he was called, who was none other than the 
aforesaid middleman; and the more she discussed the 
question, the more hopeless the question appeared. The 
steward held a contract from her dead husband for a 
number of years. He had regularly paid the yearly sums 
agreed upon, and it would be impossible to remove him 
for several years to come. He, of course, was strenuously 
opposed to any change, and did his best to make himself 
appear as an angel of mercy and justice, presiding over a 
happy family of rejoicing peasants in the heart of a ter- 
restrial paradise. Unfortunately for himself, however, 
he had not at first understood the motive which prompted 
Corona’s inquiries. He supposed in the beginning that 
she was not satisfied with the amount of rent he paid, and 
that at the expiration of his contract she intended to raise 
the sum ; so that, on the first occasion when she sent for 
him, he had drawn a piteous picture of the peasant’s con- 
dition, and had expatiated with eloquence on his own 
poverty, and on the extreme difficulty of collecting any 
rents at all. It was not until he discovered that Corona’s 
chief preoccupation was for the welfare of her tenants that 
he changed his tactics, and endeavoured to prove that all 
was for the best upon the best of all possible estates. 

Then, to his great astonishment, Corona informed him 


SARACINESCA. 


301 


that his contract would not be renewed, and that at the 
expiration of his term she would collect her rents herself. 
It had taken her long to understand the situation, but 
when she had comprehended it, she made up her mind 
that something must be done. If her fortune had de- 
pended solely upon the income she received from the 
Astrardente lands, she would have made up her mind to 
reduce herself to penury rather than allow things to 
go in the way they were going. Fortunately she was 
rich, and' if she had not all the experience necessary to 
deal with such matters, she had plenty of goodwill, plenty 
of generosity, and plenty of money. In her simple 
theory of agrarian economy the best way to improve an 
estate seemed to be to spend the income arising from it 
directly upon its improvement, until she could take the 
whole management of it into her own hands. The troiv 
ble, as she thought, was that there was too little money 
among the peasants ; the best way to help them was to put 
money within their reach. The only question was how to 
do this without demoralising them, and without increas- 
ing their liabilities towards the ministro or middleman. 

Then she sent for the curate. From him she learned 
that the people did well enough in the summer, but that 
the winter was dreaded. She asked why. He answered 
that they were not provident ; that the land system was 
bad ; and that even if they saved anything the ministro 
would take it from them. She inquired whether he 
thought it possible to induce them to be more thrifty. 
He thought it might be done in ten years, but not in one. 

“ In that case/’ said Corona, “the only way to improve 
their condition is to give them work in the winter. 1 
will make roads through the estate, and build large dwell- 
ing-houses in the town. There shall be work enough foi 
everybody.” 

It was a simple plan, but it was destined to be carried 
into execution, and to change the face of the Astrardente 
domain in a few years. Corona sent to Kome for an 
engineer who was also a good architect, and she set her- 


302 


SARACINESCA. 


self to study the possibilities of the place, giving the man 
sufficient scope, and only insisting that there should be no 
labour and no material imported from beyond the limits 
of her lands. This provided her with an occupation 
whereby the time passed quickly enough. 

The Lenten season ended, and Eastertide ran swiftly 
on to Pentecost. The early fruit-trees blossomed white, 
and the flowers fell in a snow-shower to the ground, to 
give place to the cherries and the almonds and the pears. 
The brown bramble-hedges turned leafy, and were alive 
with little birds ; and the great green lizards shot across 
the woodland paths upon the hillside, and caught the flies 
that buzzed noisily in the spring sunshine. The dried-up 
vines put forth tiny leaves, and the maize shot suddenly 
up to the sun out of the rich furrows, like myriads of bril- 
liant green poignards piercing the brown skin of the earth. 
By the roadside the grass grew high, and the broad shallow 
brooks shrank to narrow rivulets, and disappeared in the 
overgrowing rushes before the increasing heat of the 
climbing sun. 

Corona’s daily round of life never changed, but as the 
months wore on, a stealing thought came often and often 
again — shy, as though fearing to be driven away ; silent 
at first, as a shadow in a dream, but taking form and 
reality from familiarity with its own self, and speaking 
intelligible words, saying at last plainly, “ Will he keep 
his promise ? Will he never come ? ” 

But he came not as the fresh colours of spring deepened 
with the rich maturity of summer ; and Corona, gazing 
down the valley, saw the change that came over the fair 
earth, and half guessed the change that was coming over 
her own life. She had sought solitude instinctively, but 
she had not known what it would bring her. She had 
desired to honour her dead husband by withdrawing from 
the world for a time and thinking of him and remembering 
him. She had done so, but the youth in her rebelled at 
last against the constant memory of old age — of an old age, 
too, which had passed away from her and was dead for ever. 


SARACIKESCA. 


308 


It was right to dwell for a time upon the thought of her 
widowhood, but the voice said it would not be always right. 
The calm and noiseless tide of the old man’s ceasing life 
had ebbed slowly and reluctantly from her shore, and she 
had followed the sad sea in her sorrow to the furthest verge 
of its retreat ; but as she stood upon the edge of the stag- 
nant waters, gazing far out and trying to follow even 
further the slow subsiding ooze, the tide had turned upon 
her unawares, the fresh seaward breeze sprang up and 
broke the dead calm with the fresh motion of crisp 
ripples that once more flowed gladly over the dreary 
sand, and the waters of life plashed again and laughed 
gladly together around her feet. 

The thought of Giovanni — the one thought that again 
and again kept recurring in her mind — grew very sweet, — 
as sweet as it had once been bitter. There was nothing to 
stop its growth now, and she let it have its way. What 
did it matter, so long as he did not come near her — for the 
present ? Some day he would come ; she wondered when, 
and how long he would keep his promise. But meanwhile 
she was not unhappy, and she went about her occupations 
as before ; only sometimes she would go alone at evening 
to the balcony that faced the higher mountains, and there 
she would stand for half an hour gazing southward to- 
wards the precipitous rocks that caught the red glare of 
the sinking sun, and she asked herself if he were there, 
or whether, as report had told her, he were in the far north. 
It was but half a day’s ride over the hills, he had said. 
But strain her sight as she would, she could not pierce 
the heavy crags nor see into the wooded dells beyond. 
He had said he would pass the summer there ; had he 
changed his mind ? 

But she was not unhappy. There was that in her which 
forbade unhappiness, which would have broken out into 
great joy if she would have let it; but yet she would not. 
It was too soon yet to say aloud what she said in her heart 
daily, that she loved Giovanni with a great love, and that 
she knew she was free to love him. In that thought there 


304 


SARACINESCA. 


was enough of joy. But he might come if he would; her 
anger would not be great if he broke his promise now, he 
had kept it so long — six whole months. But by-and-by, 
as the days passed, the first note of happiness was marred 
by the discordant ring of a distant fear. What if she 
had too effectually forbidden him to see her ? What if 
he had gone out disappointed of all hope, and was really 
in distant Scandinavia, as the papers said, risking his life 
in mad adventures ? 

But after all, that was not what she feared. He was 
strong, young, brave — he had survived a thousand dangers, 
he would survive these also. There arose between her 
and the thought of him an evil shadow, the image of a 
woman, and it took the shape of Donna Tullia so vividly 
that she could see the red lips move and almost hear the 
noisy laugh. She was angry with herself at the idea, but 
it recurred continually and gave her pain, and the pain 
grew to an intolerable fear. She began to feel that she 
must know where he was, at any cost, or she could have 
no peace. She was restless and nervous, and began to be 
absent-minded in her conversation w r ith Sister Gabrielle. 
The good woman saw it, and advised a little change — 
anything, an excursion of a day for instance. Corona, she 
said, was too young to lead this life. 

Her mind leaped at the idea. It was but half a day’s 
ride, he had said ; she would climb those hills and look 
down upon Saracinesca — only once. She might perhaps 
meet some peasant, and by a careless inquiry she would 
learn whether he was there — or would be there in the 
summer. No one would know ; and besides, Sister Gabri- 
elle had said that an excursion would do Corona good. 
Sister Gabrielle had probably never heard that Saracinesca 
was so near, and she certainly would not guess that the 
Duchessa had any interest in its lord. She announced 
her intention, and the Sister approved — she herself, she 
said, was too weak to undergo the fatigue. 

On the following morning, Corona alone entered her 
carriage and was driven many miles up the southward 


SARACINESCA. 


305 


hills, till the road was joined by a broad bridle-path that 
led eastwards towards the Abruzzi. Here she was met by 
a party of horsemen, her own guardiani, or forest-keepers, 
as they are called, in rough dark-blue coats and leathern 
gaiters. Each man wore upon his breast a round plate of 
chiselled silver, bearing the arms of the Astrardente; each 
had a long rifle slung behind him, and carried a holster 
at the bow of his huge saddle. A couple of sturdy black- 
browed peasants held a mule by the bridle, heavily capari- 
soned in the old fashion, under a great red velvet Spanish 
saddle, with long tarnished trappings that had once been 
embroidered with silver. A little knot of peasants and 
ragged boys stood all around watching the preparations 
with interest, and commenting audibly upon the beauty of 
the great lady. 

Corona mounted from a stone by the wayside, and the 
young men led her beast up the path. She smiled to 
herself, for she had never done such a thing before, but 
she was not uneasy in the company of her rough-looking 
escort. She knew well enough that she was as safe with 
them as in her own house. 

As the bridle-path wound up from the road, the coun- 
try grew more rugged, the vegetation more scanty, and 
the stones more plentiful. It was a wilderness of rocky 
desolation ; as far as one could see there was no sign of 
humanity, not a soul upon the solitary road, not a living 
thing upon the desolate hills that rose on either side in 
jagged points to the sky. Corona talked a little with the 
head-keeper who rode beside her with a slack rein, letting 
his small mountain horse pick its own way over the rough 
path. He told her that few people ever passed that way. 
It was the short road to Saracinesca. The princes some- 
times sent their carriage round by the longer way and 
rode over the hills ; and in the vintage-time there was 
some traffic, as many of the smaller peasants carried 
grapes across the pass to the larger wine-presses, and 
sold them outright. It was not a dangerous road, for 
the very reason that it was so unfrequented. The 


306 


SARACINESCA. 


Duchessa explained that she only wanted to see the val- 
ley beyond from the summit of the pass, and would then 
return. It was past mid-day when the party reached the 
highest point, — a depression between the crags just wide 
enough to admit one loaded mule. The keeper said she 
could see Saracinesca from the end of the narrow way, 
before the descent began. She uttered an exclamation 
of surprise as she reached the spot. 

Scarcely a quarter of a mile to the right, at the ex- 
tremity of a broad hill-road, she saw the huge towers of 
Saracinesca, grey and storm-beaten, rising out of a thick 
wood. The whole intervening space — and indeed the 
whole deep valley as far as she could see — was an un- 
broken forest of chestnut-trees. Here and there below 
the castle the houses of the town showed their tiled 
gables, but the mass of the buildings was hidden com- 
pletely from sight. Corona had had no idea that she 
should find herself so near to the place, and she was 
seized with a sudden fear lest Giovanni should appear 
upon the long straight path that led into the trees. She 
drew back a little among her followers. 

“ Are the princes there now ? ” she asked of the head- 
keeper. 

He did not know ; but a moment later a peasant, riding 
astride of a bag of corn upon his donkey’s back, passed 
along the straight road by the entrance to the bridle-path. 
The keeper hailed him, and put the question. Seeing 
Corona upon her mule, surrounded by armed men in liv- 
ery, the man halted, and pulled off his soft black-cloth 
hat. 

Both the princes were in Saracinesca) he said. The 
young prince had been there ever since Easter. They 
were busy building an aqueduct which was to supply the 
whole town with water ; it was to pass above, up there 
among the woods. The princes went almost every day 
to visit the works. Her Excellency might, perhaps, find 
them there now, or if not, they were at the castle. 

But her Excellency had no intention of finding them. 


SARACINESCA. 


307 


She gave the fellow a coin, and beat a somewhat hasty 
retreat. Her followers were silent men, accustomed to 
obey, and they followed her down the steep path without 
even exchanging a word among themselves. Beneath the 
shade of an overhanging rock she halted, and, dismount- 
ing from her mule, was served with the lunch that had 
been brought. She ate little, and then sat thoughtfully 
contemplating the bare stones, while the men at a little 
distance hastily disposed of the remains of her meal. 
She had experienced an extraordinary emotion on find- 
ing herself suddenly so near to Giovanni ; it was almost 
as though she had seen him, and her heart beat fast, 
while a dark flush rose from time to time to her cheek. 
It would have been so natural that he should pass that 
way, just as she was halting at the entrance to the bridle- 
path. How unspeakably dreadful it would have been to 
be discovered thus spying out his dwelling-place wdien 
she had so strictly forbidden him to attempt to see her ! 
The blush burned upon her cheeks — she had done a thing 
so undignified, so ill befitting her magnificent superiority. 
For a moment she was desperately ashamed. But for all 
that, she could not repress the glad delight she felt at 
knowing that he was there after all ; that, if he had kept 
his word in avoiding her, he had, nevertheless, also ful- 
filled his intention of spending the summer in Sara- 
cinesca. He had even been there since Easter, and the 
story of his going to the North had been a mere inven- 
tion of the newspapers. She could not understand his 
conduct, nor why he had gone to Paris — a fact attested 
by people who knew him. It had probably been for some 
matter of business — that excuse which, in a woman’s 
mind, explains almost any sudden journey a man may 
undertake. But he was there in the castle now, and her 
heart was satisfied. 

The men packed the things in the basket, and Corona 
was helped upon her mule. Slowly the party descended 
the steep path that grew broader and more practicable as 
they neared the bottom ; there the carriage awaited her, 


808 


SARACINESCA. 


and soon she was bowling along the smooth road towards 
home, leaving far behind her the mounted guards, the 
peasants, and her slow-paced mule. The sun was low 
when the carriage rolled under the archway of Astrar- 
dente. Sister Gabrielle said Corona looked much the 
better for her excursion, and she added that she must be 
very strong to bear such fatigue so well. And the next 
day — and for many days — the Sister noticed the change 
in her hostess’s manner, and promised herself that if the 
Duchessa became uneasy again she would advise another 
day among the hills, so wonderful was the effect of a 
slight change from the ordinary routine of her life. 

That night old Saracinesca and his son sat at dinner in 
a wide hall of their castle. The faithful Pasquale served 
them as solemnly as he was used to do in Pome. This 
evening he spoke again. He had ventured no remark since 
he had informed them of the Duca d’Astrardente’s death. 

“ I beg your Excellencies’ pardon,” he began, adopting 
his usual formula of apologetic address. 

“ Well, Pasquale, what is it ? ” asked old Saracinesca. 

“ I did not know whether your Excellency was aware 
that the Duchessa d’Astrardente had been here to-day.” 

“ What ? ” roared the Prince. 

“ You must be mad, Pasquale ? ” exclaimed Giovanni in 
a low voice. 

“ I beg your Excellencies’ pardon if I am wrong, but 
this is how I know. Gigi Secchi, the peasant from 
Aquaviva in the lower forest, brought a bag of corn to the 
mill to-day, and he told the miller, and the miller told 
Ettore, and Ettore told Nino, and Nino told ” 

“ What the devil did he tell him ? ” interrupted old 
Saracinesca. 

“Nino told the cook’s boy,” continued Pasquale un- 
moved, “ and the cook’s boy told me, your Excellency, that 
Gigi was passing along the road to Serveti coming here, 
when he was stopped by a number of guardiayii who ac- 
companied a beautiful dark lady in black, who rode upon 
a mule, and the guardiani asked him if your Excellencies 


SARACINESCA. 


309 


were at Saracinesca ; and when he said you were, the lady 
gave him a coin, and turned at once and rode down the 
bridle-path towards Astrardente, and he said the guardiani 
were those of the Astrardente, because he remembered to 
have seen one of them, who has a scar over his left eye, 
at the great fair at Genazzano last year. And that is how 
I heard.” 

“ That is a remarkable narrative, Pasquale,” answered 
the Prince, laughing loudly, “ but it seems very credible. 
Go and send for Gigi Secclii if he is still in the neigh- 
bourhood, and bring him here, and let us have the story 
from his own lips.” 

When they were alone the two men looked at each 
other for a moment, and then old Saracinesca laughed 
again ; but Giovanni looked very grave, and his face was 
pale. Presently his father became serious again. 

“ If this thing is true,” he said, “ I would advise you, 
Giovanni, to pay a visit to the other side of the hills. It 
is time.” 

Giovanni was silent for a moment. He was intensely 
interested in the situation, but he could not tell his father 
that he had promised Corona not to see her, and he had 
not yet explained to himself her sudden appearance so 
near Saracinesca. 

“ I think it would be better for you to go first,” he 
said to his father. “But I am not at all sure this story 
is true.” 

“ I ? Oh, I will go when you please,” returned the old 
man, with another laugh. He was always ready for any- 
thing active. 

But Gigi Secchi could not be found. He had returned 
to Aquaviva at once, and it was not easy to send a mes- 
sage. Two days later, however, Giovanni took the trouble 
of going to the man’s home. He was not altogether sur- 
prised when Gigi confirmed Pasquale’s tale in every par- 
ticular. Corona had actually been at Saracinesca to find 
out if Giovanni was there or not ; and on hearing that he 
was at the castle, she had fled precipitately. Giovanni was 


310 


SARACIKESCA. 


naturally grave and of a melancholy temper ; but during 
the last few months he had been more than usually taci- 
turn, occupying himself with dogged obstinacy in the con- 
struction of his aqueduct, visiting the works in the day 
and spending hours in the evening over the plans. He 
was waiting. He believed that Corona cared for him, 
and he knew that he loved her, but for the present he 
must wait patiently, both for the sake of his promise and 
for the sake of a decent respect of her widowhood. In 
order to wait he felt the necessity of constant occupation, 
and to that end he had set himself resolutely to work 
with his father, whose ideal dream was to make Sara- 
cinesca the most complete and prosperous community in 
that part of the mountains. 

“ I think if you would go over,” he said, at the end of a 
week, “ it would be much better. I do not want to intrude 
myself upon her at present, and you could easily find out 
whether she would like to see me. After all, she may have 
been merely making an excursion for her amusement, and 
may have chanced upon us by accident. I have often 
noticed how suddenly one comes in view of the castle 
from that bridle-path.” 

“ On the other hand,” returned the Prince with a smile, 
“ any one would tell her that the path leads nowhere ex- 
cept to Saracinesca. But I will go to-morrow,” he added. 
“ I will set your mind at rest in twenty-four hours.” 

“ Thank you,” said Giovanni. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Old Saracinesca kept his word, and on the following 
morning, eight days after Corona’s excursion upon the 
hills, he rode down to Astrardente, reaching the palace at 
about mid-day. He sent in his card, and stood waiting 
beneath the great gate, beating the dust from his boots 


SAKACINESCA. 


311 


with his heavy whip. His face looked darker than ever, 
from constant exposure to the sun, and his close-cropped 
hair and short square beard had turned even whiter than 
before in the last six months, but his strong form was 
erect, and his step firm and elastic. He was a remark- 
able old man ; many a boy of twenty might have envied 
his strength and energetic vitality. 

Corona was at her mid-day breakfast with Sister Gabri- 
elle, when the old Prince’s card was brought. She started 
at the sight of the name ; and though upon the bit of 
pasteboard she read plainly enough, “ U Principe di Sara- 
cinesca she hesitated, and asked the butler if it was 
really the Prince. He said it was. 

“ Would you mind seeing him ? ” she asked of Sister 
Gabrielle. “ He is an old gentleman,” she. added, in ex- 
planation — “ a near neighbour here in the mountains.” 

Sister Gabrielle had no objection. She even remarked 
that it would do the Duchessa good to see some one. 

“ Ask the Prince to come in, and put another place at 
the table,” said Corona. 

A moment later the old man entered, and Corona rose 
to receive him. There was something refreshing in the 
ring of his deep voice and the clank of his spurs as he 
crossed the marble floor. 

“ Signora Duchessa, you are very good to receive me. 
I did not know that this was your breakfast-hour. Ah ! ” 
he exclaimed, glancing at Sister Gabrielle, who had also 
risen to her feet, “ good day, my Sister.” 

“ Sister Gabrielle,” said Corona, as an introduction; 
“ she is good enough to be my companion in solitude.” 

To tell the truth, Corona felt uneasy ; but the sensa- 
tion was somehow rather pleasurable, although it crossed 
her mind that the Prince might have heard of her excur- 
sion, and had possibly come to find out why she had been 
so near to his place. She boldly faced the situation. 

“I nearly came upon you the other day as unex- 
pectedly as you have visited me,” she said with a smile. 
“ I had a fancy to look over into your valley, and when 


312 


SARACINESCA. 


I reached the top of the hill I found I was almost in 
your house.” 

“ I wish you had quite been there,” returned the Prince. 
“ Of course I heard that you had been seen, and we 
guessed you had stumbled upon us in some mountain 
excursion. My son rode all the way to Aquaviva to see 
the man who had spoken with you.” 

Saracinesca said this as though it were perfectly nat- 
ural, helping himself to the dish the servant offered him. 
But when he looked up he saw that Corona blushed 
beneath her dark skin. 

“ It is such a very sudden view at that point,” she said, 
nervously, “that I was startled.” 

“ I wish you had preserved your equanimity to the ex- 
tent of going a little further. Saracinesca has rarely 
been honoured with the visit of a Duchessa d’Astrardente. 
But since you have explained your visit — or the visit 
which you did not make — I ought to explain mine. You 
must know, in the first place, that I am not here by 
accident, but by intention, preconceived, well pondered, 
and finally executed to my own complete satisfaction. I 
came, not to get a glimpse of your valley nor a distant 
view of your palace, but to see you, yourself. Your 
hospitality in receiving me has therefore crowned and 
complimented the desire I had of seeing you.” 

Corona laughed a little. 

“ That is a very pretty speech,” she said. 

“ Which you would have lost if you had not received 
me,” he answered, gaily. “I have not done yet. I have 
many pretty speeches for you. The sight of you induces 
beauty in language as the sun in May makes the flowers 
open.” 

“ That is another,” laughed Corona. “ Do you spend 
your days in studying the poets at Saracinesca ? Does 
Don Giovanni study with you ? ” 

“ Giovanni is a fact,” returned the Prince ; “ I am a 
fable. Old men are always fables, for they represent, in 
a harmless form, the follies of all mankind ; their end is 


SARACINESCA. 313 

always in itself a moral, and young people can learn 
much by studying them.” 

“Your comparison is witty,” said Corona, who was 
much amused at old Saracinesca’s conversation; “but 
I doubt whether you are so harmless as you repre- 
sent. You are certainly not foolish, and I am not sure 

whether, as a study for the young ” she hesitated, 

and laughed. 

“ Whether extremely young persons would have the 
wit to comprehend virtue by the concealment of it — to 
say, as that witty old Roman said, that the images of 
Cassius and Brutus were more remarkable than those of 
any one else, for the very reason that they were nowhere 
to be seen — like my virtues ? Giovanni, for instance, is 
the very reverse of me in that, though he has shown 
such singularly bad taste in resembling my outward 
man.” 

“One should never conceal virtues,” said Sister Gabri- 
elle, gently. “ One should not hide one’s light under a 
basket, you know.” 

“ My Sister,” replied the old Prince, his' black eyes 
twinkling merrily, “ if I had in my whole composition as 
much light as would enable you to read half-a-dozen 
words in your breviary, it should be at your disposal. I 
would set it in the midst of Piazza Colonna, and call it 
the most wonderful illumination on record. Unfortu- 
nately my light, like the lantern of a solitary miner, is 
only perceptible to myself, and dimly at that.” 

“You must not depreciate yourself so very much,” said 
Corona. 

“ JSTo ; that is true. You will either believe I am speak- 
ing the truth, or you will not. I do not know which would 
be the worse fate. I will change the subject. My son 
Giovanni, Duchessa, desires to be remembered in your 
good graces.” 

“ Thanks. How is he ? ” 

“ He is well, but the temper of him is marvellously 
melancholy. He is building an aqueduct, and so am I. 


314 


SARACINESCA. 


The thing is accomplished by his working perpetually 
while I smoke cigarettes and read novels.” 

“ The division of labour is to your advantage, I should 
say,” remarked Corona. 

“ Immensely, I assure you. He promotes the natural 
advantages of my lands, and I encourage the traffic in 
tobacco and literature. He works from morning till 
night, is his own engineer, contractor, overseer, and mas- 
ter-mason. He does everything, and does it well. If we 
were less barbarous in our bachelor establishment I 
would ask you to come and see us — in earnest this time 
— and visit the work we are doing. It is well worth 
while. Perhaps you would consent as it is. We will 
vacate the castle for your benefit, and mount guard out- 
side the gates all night.” 

Again Corona blushed. She would have given any- 
thing to go, but she felt that it was impossible. 

“I would like to go,” she said. “If one could come 
back the same day.” 

“You did before,” remarked Saracinesca, bluntly. 

“ But it was late when I reached home, and I spent 
no time at all there.” 

“I know you did not,” laughed the old man. “You 
gave Gigi Secchi some money, and then fled precipi- 
tately.” 

“ Indeed I was afraid you would suddenly come upon 
me, and I ran away,” answered Corona, laughing in her 
turn, as the dark blood rose to her olive cheeks. 

“ As my amiable ancestors did in the same place when 
, anybody passed with a full purse,” suggested Saracinesca. 
“But we have improved a little since then. We would 
have asked you to breakfast. Will you come ?•’ 

“ I do not like to go alone ; I cannot, you see. Sister 
Gabrielle could never ride up that hill on a mule.” 

“ There is a road for carriages,” said the Prince. “ I 
will propose something in the way of a compromise. I 
will bring Giovanni down with me and our team of moun- 
tain horses. Those great beasts of yours cannot do this 


SARACINESCA. 315 

kind of work. We will take you and Sister Gabrielle up 
almost as fast as you could go by the bridle-path.” 

“ And back on the same day ? ” asked Corona. 

“No ; on the next day.” 

“ But I do not see where the compromise is,” she replied. 

“Sister Gabrielle is at once the compromise and the 
cause that you will not be compromised. I beg her par- 
don ” 

Both ladies laughed. 

“ I will be very glad to go,” said the Sister. “ I do 
not see that there is anything extraordinary in the 
Prince’s proposal.” 

“My Sister,” returned Saracinesca, “you are on the 
way to saintship ; you already enjoy the beatific vision ; 
you see with a heavenly perspicuity.” 

“ It is a charming proposition,” said Corona ; “ but in 
that case you will have to come down the day before.” 
She was a little embarrassed. 

“We will not invade the cloister,” answered the Prince. 
“ Giovanni and I will spend the night in concocting pretty 
speeches, and will appear armed with them at dawn 
before your gates.” 

“There is room in Astrardente,” replied Corona. 
“ You shall not lack hospitality for a night. When will 
you come ? ” 

“To-morrow evening, if you please. A good thing 
should be done quickly, in order not to delay doing it 
again.” 

“ Do you think I would go again ? ” 

Saracinesca fixed his black eyes on Corona’s, and gazed 
at her some seconds before he answered. 

“ Madam,” he said at last, very gravely, “ I trust you 
will come again and stay longer.” 

“ You are very good,” returned Corona, quietly. “ At 
all events-, I will go this first time.” 

“We will endeavour to show our gratitude by making 
you comfortable,” answered the Prince, resuming his 
former tone. “You shall have a mass in the morning 


316 


SARACINESCA. 


and a litany in the evening. We are godless fellows up 
there, but we have a priest.” 

“You seem to associate our comfort entirely with re- 
ligious services,” laughed Corona. “But you are very 
considerate.” 

“ I see the most charming evidence of devotion at your 
side,” he replied ; “ Sister Gabrielle is both the evidence 
of your piety and is in herself an exposition of the bene- 
fits of religion. There shall be other attractions, however, 
besides masses and litanies.” 

Breakfast being ended, Sister Gabrielle left the two to- 
gether. They went from the dining-room to the great 
vaulted hall of the inner building. It was cool there, and 
there were great old arm-chairs ranged along the walls. 
The closed blinds admitted a soft green light from the 
hot noonday without. Corona loved to walk upon the 
cool marble floor ; she was a very strong and active 
woman, delighting in mere motion — not restless, but 
almost incapable of weariness; her movements not rapid, 
but full of grace and ease. Saracinesca walked by her 
side, smoking thoughtfully for some minutes. 

“ Duchessa,” he said at last, glancing at her beautiful 
face, “things are greatly changed since we met last. You 
were angry with me then. I do not know whether you 
were so justly, but you were very angry for a few moments. 
I am going to return to the subject now ; I trust you will 
not be offended with me.” 

Corona trembled for a moment, and was silent. She 
would have prevented him from going on, but before she 
could find the words she sought he continued. 

“Things are much changed, in some respects; in others, 
not at all. It is but natural to suppose that in the course 
of time you will think of the possibility of marrying again. 
My son, Duchessa, loves you very truly. Pardon me, it is 
no disrespect to you, now, that he should have told me so. 
I am his father, and I have no one else to care for. He is 
too honest a gentleman to have spoken of his affection for 
you at an earlier period, but he has told me of it now.” 


SARACINESCA. 


317 


Corona stood still in the midst of the great hall, and 
faced the old Prince. She had grown pale while he was 
speaking. Still she was silent. 

“ I have nothing more to say — that is all,” said Saracin- 
esca, gazing earnestly into the depths of her eyes. “I 
have nothing more to say.” 

“Do you then mean to repeat the warning you once 
gave me ? ” asked Corona, growing whiter still. “ Do 
you mean to imply that there is danger to your son ? ” 

“ There is danger — great danger for him, unless you will 
avert it.” 

“ And how ? ” asked Corona, in a low voice. 

“ Madam, by becoming his wife.” 

Corona started and turned away in great agitation. 
Saracinesca stood still while she slowly walked a few steps 
from him. She could not speak. 

“ I could say a great deal more, Duchessa,” he said, as 
she came back towards him. “ I could say that the 
marriage is not only fitting in every other way, but is also 
advantageous from a worldly point of view. You are sole 
mistress of Astrardente ; my son will before long be sole 
master of Saracinesca. Our lands are near together — that 
is a great advantage, that question of fortune. Again, I 
would observe that, with your magnificent position, you 
could not condescend to accept a man of lower birth than 
the highest in the country. There is none higher than the 
Saracinesca — pardon my arrogance, — and among princes 
there is no braver, truer gentleman than my son Giovanni. 
I ask no pardon for saying that ; I will maintain it against 
all comers. I forego all questions of advantage, and base 
my argument upon that. He is the best man I know, and 
he loves you devotedly.” 

“ Is he aware that you are here for this purpose ? ” 
asked Corona, suddenly. She spoke with a great ef- 
fort. 

“Ho. He knows that I am here, and was glad that I 
came. He desired me to ascertain if you would see him. 
He would certainly not have thought of addressing you 


318 


SAEACINESCA. 


at present. I am an old man, and I feel that I must do 
things quickly. That is my excuse.” 

Corona was again silent. She was too truthful to give 
an evasive answer, and yet she hesitated to speak. The 
position was an embarrassing one ; she was taken una- 
wares, and was terrified at the emotion she felt. It had 
never entered her mind that the old Prince could appear 
on his son’s behalf, and she did not know how to meet 
him. 

“I have perhaps been too abrupt,” said Saracinesca. 
“ I love my son very dearly, and his happiness is more 
to me than what remains of my own. If from the first 
you regard my proposition as an impossible one, I would 
spare him the pain of a humiliation, — I fear I could not 
save him from the rest, from a suffering that might drive 
him mad. It is for this reason that I implore you, if 
you are able, to give me some answer, not that I may 
convey it to him, but in order that I may be guided in 
future. He cannot forget you ; but he has not seen you 
for six months. To see you again if he must leave you 
for ever, would only inflict a fresh wound.” He paused, 
while Corona slowly walked by his side. 

“I do not see why I should conceal the truth from 
you,” she said at last. “ I cannot conceal it from myself. 
I am not a child that I should be ashamed of it. There 
is nothing wrong in it — no reason why it should not be. 
You are honest, too — why should we try to deceive our- 
selves ? I trust to your honour to be silent, and I own 
that I — that I love your son.” 

Corona stood still and turned her face away, as the 
burning blush rose to her cheeks. The answer she had 
given was characteristic of her, straightforward and 
honest. She was not ashamed of it, and yet the words 
were so new, so strange in their sound, and so strong in 
their meaning, that she blushed as she uttered them. 
Saracinesca was greatly surprised, too, for he had ex- 
pected some evasive turn, some hint that he might bring 
Giovanni. But his delight had no bounds. 


SARACINESCA. 


319 


“ Duchessa,” he said, “ the happiest day I can remem- 
ber was when I brought home my wife to Saracinesca. 
My proudest day will be that on which my son enters the 
same gates with you by his side.” 

He took her hand and raised it to his lips, with a 
courteous gesture. 

“ It will be long before that — it must be very long,” 
answered Corona. 

“ It shall be when you please, Madam, provided it is at 
last. Meanwhile we will come down to-morrow, and take 
you to our tower. Do you understand now why I said 
that I hoped you would come again and stay longer ? I 
trust you have not changed your mind in regard to the 
excursion.” 

“No. We will expect you to-morrow night. Remem- 
ber, I have been honest with you — I trust to you to be 
silent.” 

“You have my word. And now, with your permis- 
sion, I will return to Saracinesca. Believe me, the news 
that you expect us will be good enough to tell Giovanni.” 

“ You may greet him from me. But will you not rest 
awhile before you ride back ? You must be tired.” 

“ No fear of that ! ” answered the Prince. “ You have 
put a new man into an old one. I shall never tire of 
bearing the news of your greetings.” 

So the old man left her, and mounted his horse and 
rode up the pass. But Corona remained for hours in the 
vaulted hall, pacing up and down. It had come too soon 
— far too soon. And yet, how she had longed for it ! 
how she had wondered whether it would ever come at 
all! 

The situation was sufficiently strange, too. Giovanni 
had once told her of his love, and she had silenced him. 
He was to tell her again, and she was to accept what he 
said. He was to ask her to marry him, and her answer 
w'as a foregone conclusion. It seemed as though this 
greatest event of her life were planned to the very smallest 
details beforehand ; as though she were to act a part which 


320 


SAKACINESCA. 


she had studied, and which was yet no comedy because it 
was the expression of her life’s truth. The future had 
been, as it were, prophesied and completely foretold to 
her, and held no surprises ; and yet it was more sweet to 
think of than all the past together. She wondered how 
he would say it, what his words would be, how he would 
look, whether he would again be as strangely violent as he 
had been that night at the Palazzo Frangipani. She 
wondered, most of all, how she would answer him. But 
it would be long yet. There would be many meetings, 
many happy days before that happiest day of all. 

Sister Gabrielle saw a wonderful change in Corona’s 
face that afternoon when they drove up the valley together, 
and she remarked what wonderful effect a little variety 
had upon her companion’s spirits — she could not say upon 
her health, for Corona seemed made of velvet and steel, so 
smooth and dark, and yet so supple and strong. Corona 
smiled brightly as she looked far up at the beetling crags 
behind which Saracinesca was hidden. 

“We shall be up there the day after to-morrow,” she 
said. “ How strange it will seem ! ” And leaning back, 
her deep eyes flashed, and she laughed happily. 

On the following evening, again, they drove along the 
road that led up the valley. But they had not gone far 
when they saw in the distance a cloud of dust, from which 
in a few moments emerged a vehicle drawn by three strong 
horses, and driven by Giovanni Saracinesca himself. His 
father sat beside him in front, and a man in livery was 
seated at the back, with a long rifle between his knees. 
The vehicle was a kind of double cart, capable of holding 
four persons, and two servants at the back. 

In a moment the two carriages met and stopped side by 
side. Giovanni sprang from his seat, throwing the reins 
to his father, who stood up hat in hand, and bowed from 
. where he was. Corona held out her hand to Giovanni as 
he stood bareheaded in the road beside her. One long 
look told all the tale ; there could be no words there before 
the Sister and the old Prince, but their eyes told all — the 


SARACINESCA. 321 

pain of past separation, the joy of two loving hearts that 
met at last without hindrance. 

“ Let your servant drive, and get in with us,” said Co- 
rona, who could hardly speak in her excitement. Then she 
started slightly, and smiled in her embarrassment. She 
had continued to hold Giovanni’s hand, unconsciously 
leaving her fingers in his. 

The Prince’s groom climbed into the front seat, and old 
Saracinesca got down and entered the landau. It was 
a strangely silent meeting, long expected by the two who 
so loved each other — long looked for, but hardly realised 
now that it had come. The Prince was the first to speak, 
as usual. 

“ You expected to meet us, Duchessa ? ” he said ; “we 
expected to meet you. An expectation fulfilled is better 
than a surprise. Everything at Saracinesca is prepared 
for your reception. Don Angelo, our priest, has been 
warned of your coming, and the boy who serves mass has 
been washed. You may imagine that a great festivity is 
expected. Giovanni has turned the castle inside out, and 
had a room hung entirely with tapestries of my great- 
grandmother’s own working. He says that since the place 
is so old, its antiquity should be carried into the smallest 
details.” 

Corona laughed gaily — she would have laughed at any- 
thing that day — and the old Prince’s tone was fresh and 
sparkling and merry. He had relieved the first embar- 
rassment of the situation. 

“ There have been preparations at Astrardente for your 
reception, too,” answered the Duchessa. “ There was a 
difficulty of choice, as there are about a hundred vacant 
rooms in the house. The butler proposed to give you a 
suite of sixteen to pass the night in, but I selected an airy 
little nook in one of the wings, where you need only go 
through ten to get to your bedroom.” 

“ There is nothing like space,” said the Prince ; “ it en- 
larges the ideas.” 

“ I cannot imagine what my father would do if his 

17 


322 


SARACINESCA. 


ideas were extended,” remarked Giovanni. “ Everything 
he imagines is colossal already. He talks about tun- 
nelling the mountains for my aqueduct, as though it were 
no more trouble than to run a stick through a piece of 
paper.” 

“Your aqueduct, indeed!” exclaimed his father. “I 
would like to know whose idea it was ? ” 

“ I hear you are working like an engineer yourself, Don 
Giovanni,” said Corona. “ I have a man at work at As- 
trardente on some plans of roads. Perhaps some day you 
could give us your advice.” 

Some day ! How sweet the words sounded to Gio- 
vanni as he sat opposite the woman he loved, bowling 
along through the rich vine lands in the cool of the sum- 
mer evening ! 


CHAPTER XXY. 

The opportunity which Giovanni sought of being alone 
with Corona was long in coming. Sister Gabrielle retired 
immediately after dinner, and the Duchessa was left alone 
with the two men. Old Saracinesca would gladly have 
left his son with the hostess, but the thing was evidently 
impossible. The manners of the time would not allow it, 
and the result was that the Prince spent the evening in 
making conversation for two rather indifferent listeners. 
He tried to pick a friendly quarrel with Giovanni, but the 
latter was too absent-minded even to be annoyed; he 
tried to excite the Duchessa’s interest, but she only 
smiled gently, making a remark from time to time which 
was conspicuous for its irrelevancy. But old Saracinesca 
was in a good humour, and he bore up bravely until ten 
o’clock, when Corona gave the signal for retiring. They 
were to start very early in the morning, she said, and she 
must have rest. 

When the two men were alone, the Prince turned upon 


SARACINESCA. 


323 


his son in semi-comic anger, and upbraided him with his 
obstinate dulness during the evening. Giovanni only 
smiled calmly, and shrugged his shoulders. There was 
nothing more to be said. 

But on the following morning, soon after six o’clock, 
Giovanni had the supreme satisfaction of installing Corona 
beside him upon the driving-seat of his cart, while his 
father and Sister Gabrielle sat together behind him. The 
sun was not yet above the hills, and the mountain air was 
keen and fresh ; the stamping of the horses sounded crisp 
and sharp, and their bells rang merrily as they shook their 
sturdy necks and pricked their short ears to catch Gio- 
vanni’s voice. 

“ Have you forgotten nothing, Duchessa ? ” asked Gio- 
vanni, gathering the reins in his hand. 

“ Nothing, thanks. I have sent our things on mules — 
by the bridle-path.” She smiled involuntarily as she re- 
called her adventure, and half turned her face away. 

“Ah, yes — the bridle-path,” repeated Giovanni, as he 
nodded to the groom to stand clear of the horses’ heads. 
In a moment they were briskly descending the winding 
road through the town of Astrardente : the streets were 
quiet and cool, for the peasants had all gone to their oc- 
cupations two hours before, and the children were not yet 
turned loose. 

“ I never hoped to have the honour of myself driving 
you to Saracinesca,” said Giovanni. “It is a wild place 
enough, in its way. You will be able to fancy yourself 
in Switzerland.” 

“ I would rather be in Italy,” answered Corona. “ I do 
not care for the Alps. Our own mountains are as beau- 
tiful, and are not infested by tourists.” 

“You are a tourist to-day,” said Giovanni. “And it 
has pleased Heaven to make me your guide.” 

“ I will listen to your explanations of the sights with 
interest.” 

“ It is a reversal of the situation, is it not ? When we 
last met, it was you who guided me, and I humbly fol- 


324 


SARACINESCA. 


lowed your instructions. I did precisely as you told 
me.” 

“ Had I doubted that you would do as I asked, I would 
not have spoken,” answered Corona. 

t( There was one thing you advised me to do which I 
have not even attempted.” 

“ What was that ? ” 

“You told me to forget you. I have spent six months 
in constantly remembering you, and in looking forward 
to this moment. Was I wrong ? ” 

“ Of course,” replied the Duchessa, with a little laugh. 
“ You should by this time have forgotten my existence. 
They said you were gone to the North Pole — why did 
you change your mind ? ” 

“I followed my load-star. It led me from Pome to 
Saracinesca by the way of Paris. I should have remained 
at Saracinesca — but you also changed your mind. I began 
to think you never would.” 

“ How long do you think of staying up there ? ” asked 
Corona, to turn the conversation. 

. “ J ust so long as you stay at Astrardente,” he answered. 
“ You will not forbid me to follow you to Rome ? ” 

“ How can I prevent you if you choose to do it ? ” 

“ By a word, as you did before.” 

“ Do you think I would speak that word ? ” she asked. 

“ I trust not. Why should you cause me needless pain 
and suffering ? If it was right then, it is not right now. 
Besides, you know me too well to think that I would annoy 
you or thrust myself upon you. But I will do as you wish.” 

“ Thank you,” she said quietly. But she turned her 
dark face toward him, and looked at him for a moment 
very gently, almost lovingly. Where was the use of 
trying to conceal what would not be hidden ? Every 
word he spoke told of his unchanged love, although the 
phrases were short and simple. Why should she con- 
ceal what she felt ? She knew it was a foregone con- 
clusion. They loved each other, and she would certainly 
marry him in the course of a year. The long pent up 


SARACINESCA. 


825 


forces of her nature were beginning to assert themselves ; 
she had conquered and fought down her natural being in 
the effort to be all things to her old husband, to quench 
her growing interest in Giovanni, to resist his declared 
love, to drive him from her in her widowhood ; but now 
it seemed as though all obstacles were suddenly removed. 
She saw clearly how well she loved him, and it seemed 
folly to try and conceal it. As she sat by his side she 
was unboundedly happy, as she had never been in her 
life before : the cool morning breeze fanned her cheeks, 
and the music of his low voice soothed her, while the 
delicious sense of rapid motion lent a thrill of pleasure 
to every breath she drew. It was no matter what she 
said; it was as though she spoke unconsciously. All 
seemed predestined and foreplanned from all time, to 
be acted out to the end. The past vanished slowly as a 
retreating landscape. The weary traveller, exhausted 
with the heat of the scorching Campagna, slowly climbs 
the ascent towards Tivoli, the haven of cool waters, and 
pausing now and then upon the path, looks back and 
sees how the dreary waste of undulating hillocks be- 
neath him seems gradually to subside into a dim flat 
plain, while, in the far distance, the mighty domes and 
towers of Rome dwindle to an unreal mirage in the 
warm haze of the western sky ; then advancing again, 
he feels the breath of the mountains upon him, and hears 
the fresh plunge of the cold cataract, till at last, when 
his strength is almost failing, it is renewed within him, 
and the dust and the heat of the day’s journey are for- 
gotten in the fulness of refreshment. So Corona d’As- 
trardente, wearied though not broken by the fatigues 
and the troubles and the temptations of the past five 
years, seemed suddenly to be taken up and borne swiftly 
through the gardens of an earthly paradise, where there 
was neither care nor temptation, and where, in the cool 
air of a new life, the one voice she loved was ever mur- 
muring gentle things to her willing ear. 

As the road began to ascend, sweeping round the base 


326 


SARACINESCA. 


of the mountain and upwards by even gradations upon its 
southern flank, the sun rose higher in the heavens, and the 
locusts broke into their summer song among the hedges 
with that even, long-drawn, humming note, so sweet to 
southern ears. But Corona did not feel the heat, nor 
notice the dust upon the way ; she was in a new state, 
wherein such things could not trouble her. The first 
embarrassment of a renewed intimacy was fast disappear- 
ing, and she talked easily to Giovanni of many things, 
reviewing past scenes and speaking of mutual acquaint- 
ances, turning the conversation when it concerned Gio- 
vanni or herself too directly, yet ever and again coming 
back to that sweet ground which was no longer danger- 
ous now. At last, at a turn in the road, the grim towers 
of ancient Saracinesca loomed in the distance, and the 
carriage entered a vast forest of chestnut trees, shady 
and cool after the sunny ascent. So they reached the 
castle, and the sturdy horses sprang wildly forward up 
the last incline till their hoofs struck noisily upon the 
flagstones of the bridge, and with a rush and a plunge 
they dashed under the black archway, and halted in the 
broad court beyond. 

Corona was surprised at the size of the old fortress. 
It seemed an endless irregular mass of towers and build- 
ings, all of rough grey stone, surrounded by battlements 
and ramparts, kept in perfect repair, but destitute of any 
kind of ornament whatever. It might have been even 
now a military stronghold, and it was evident that there 
were traditions of precision and obedience within its 
walls which would have done credit to any barracks. 
The dominant temper of the master made itself felt at 
every turn, and the servants moved quickly and silently 
about their duties. There was something intensely at- 
tractive to Corona in the air of strength that pervaded 
the place, and Giovanni had never seemed to her so 
manly and so much in his element as under the grey 
walls of his ancestral home. The place, too, was associ- 
ated in history with so many events, — the two men, 


SARACINESCA. 


827 


Leone and Giovanni Saracinesca, stood there beside her, 
where their ancestors of the same names had stood nearly 
a thousand years before, their strong dark faces having 
the same characteristics that for centuries had marked 
their race, features familiar to Romans by countless 
statues and pictures, as the stones of Rome themselves 
— but for a detail of dress, it seemed to Corona as though 
she had been suddenly transported back to the thirteenth 
century. The idea fascinated her. The two men led her 
up the broad stone staircase, and ushered her and Sister 
Gabrielle into the apartments of state which had been 
prepared for them. 

“We have done our best,” said the Prince, “but it is 
long since we have entertained ladies at Saracinesca.” 

“ It is magnificent ! ” exclaimed Corona, as she entered 
the ante-chamber. The walls were hung from end to end 
with priceless tapestries, and the stone floor was covered 
with long eastern carpets. Corona paused. 

“You must show us all over the castle by-and-by,” she 
said. 

“ Giovanni will show you everything,” answered the 
Prince. “ If it pleases you, we will breakfast in half-an- 
hour.” He turned away with his son, and left the two 
ladies to refresh themselves before the mid-day meal. 

Giovanni kept his word, and spared his guests no 
detail of the vast stronghold, until at last poor Sister 
Gabrielle could go no farther. Giovanni had anticipated 
that she would be tired, and with the heartlessness of a 
lover seeking his opportunity, he had secretly longed for 
the moment when she should be obliged to stop. 

“You have not yet seen the view from the great tower,” 
he said. “ It is superb, and this is the very best hour for 
it. Are you tired, Duchessa ? ” 

“No — I am never tired,” answered Corona. 

“ Why not go with Giovanni ? ” suggested the Prince. 
“ I will stay with Sister Gabrielle, who has nearly ex- 
hausted herself with seeing our sights.” 

Corona hesitated. The idea of being alone with Gio- 


328 


SARACINESCA. 


vanni for a quarter of an hour was delightful, but some- 
how it did not seem altogether fitting for her to be 
wandering over the castle with him. On the other hand, 
to refuse would seem almost an affectation : she was not 
in Rome, where her every movement was a subject for 
remark; moreover, she was not only a married woman, 
but a widow, and she had known Giovanni for years — 
it would be ridiculous to refuse. 

“ Very well,” said she. “Let us see the view before it 
is too late.” 

Sister Gabrielle and old Saracinesca sat down on a 
stone seat upon the rampart to wait, and the Duchessa 
disappeared with Giovanni through the low door that led 
into the great tower. 

“What a wonderful woman you are ! ” exclaimed Gio- 
vanni, as they reached the top of the winding stair, which 
was indeed broader than the staircase of many great 
houses in Rome. “You seem to be never tired.” 

“No — I am very strong,” answered Corona, with a 
smile. She was not even out of breath. “What a 
wonderful view ! ” she exclaimed, as they emerged upon 
the stone platform at the top of the tower. Giovanni 
was silent for a moment. The two stood together and 
looked far out at the purple mountains to eastward that 
caught the last rays of the sun high up above the shad- 
ows of the valley ; and then looking down, they saw the 
Prince and the Sister a hundred feet below them upon 
the rampart. 

Both were thinking of the same thing : three days ago, 
their meeting had seemed infinitely far off, a thing 
dreamed of and hoped for — and now they were standing- 
alone upon the topmost turret of Giovanni’s house, famil- 
iar with each other by a long day’s conversation, feeling 
as though they had never been parted, feeling also that 
most certainly they would not be parted again. 

“It is very strange,” said Giovanni, “how things hap- 
pen in this world, and how little we ever know of what 
is before us. Last week I wondered whether I should 


SARACINESCA. 


329 


ever see you — now I cannot imagine not seeing you. Is 
it not strange ? ” 

“ Yes,” answered Corona, in a low voice. 

“ That, yesterday, we should have seemed parted by an 

insurmountable barrier, and that to-day ” he stopped. 

“ Oh, if to-day could only last for ever ! ” he exclaimed, 
suddenly. 

Corona gazed out upon the purple hills in silence, but 
her face caught some of the radiance of the distant glow, 
and her dark eyes had strange lights in them. She could 
not have prevented him from speaking ; she had loosed 
the bonds that had held her life so long; the anchor was 
up, and the breath of love fanned the sails, and gently 
bore the craft in which she trusted out to seaward over 
the fair water. In seeing him she had resigned herself 
to him, and she could not again get the mastery if she 
would. It had come too soon, but it was sweet. 

“ And why not ? ” he said, very softly. “ Why should 
it not remain so for ever — till our last breath ? Why 
will you not let it last ? ” 

Still she was silent ; but the tears gathered slowly in 
her eyes, and welled over and lay upon her velvet cheek 
like dewdrops on the leaves of a soft dark tulip. Gio- 
vanni saw them, and knew that they were the jewels 
which crowned his life. 

“ You will,” he said, his broad brown hand gently cov- 
ering her small fingers and taking them in his. “You 
will — I know that you will.” 

She said nothing, and though she at first made a slight 
movement — not of resistance, but of timid reluctance, 
utterly unlike herself — she suffered him to hold her 
hand. He drew closer to her, himself more diffident in 
the moment of success than he had ever been when he 
anticipated failure ; she was so unlike any woman he had 
ever known before. Very gently he put his arm about 
her, and drew her to him. 

“ My beloved — at last,” he whispered, as her head sank 
upon his shoulder.. 


330 


SARACINESCA. 


Then with a sudden movement she sprang to her 
height, and for one instant gazed upon him. Her whole 
being was transfigured in the might of her passion : her 
dark face was luminously pale, her lips almost white, 
and from her eyes there seemed to flash a blazing fire. 
For one instant she gazed upon him, and then her arms 
went round his neck, and she clasped him fiercely to her 
breast. 

“ Ah, Giovanni,’’ she cried, passionately, “ you do not 
know what love means ! ” 

A moment later her arms dropped from him ; she 
turned and buried her face in her hands, leaning against 
the high stone parapet of the tower. She was not weep- 
ing, but her face was white, and her bosom heaved with 
quick and strong-drawn breath. 

Giovanni went to her side and took her strongly in his 
right arm, and again her head rested upon his shoulder. 

“ It is too soon — too soon,” she murmured. “ But how 
can I help it ? I love you so that there is no counting of 
time. It seems years since we met last night, and I 
thought it would be years before I told you. Oh, Gio- 
vanni, I am so happy ! Is it possible that you love me 
as I love you ? ” 

It is a marvellous thing to see how soon two people who 
love each other learn the gentle confidence that only love 
can bring. A few moments later Giovanni and Corona 
were slowly pacing the platform, and his arm was about 
her waist and her hand in his. 

“ Do you know,” she was saying, “ I used to wonder 
whether you would keep your word, and never try to see 
me. The days were so long at Astrardente.” 

“Not half so long as at Saraeinesca,” he answered. “I 
was going to call my aqueduct the Bridge of Sighs ; I will 
christen it now the Spring of Love.” 

“ I must go and see it to-morrow,” said she. 

“ Or the next day ” 

“ The next day ! ” she exclaimed, with a happy laugh. 
“Do you think I am going to stay ” 


SARACINESCA. 


331 


“ For ever,” interrupted Giovanni. “We have a priest 
here, you know, — he can marry us to-morrow, and then 
you need never go away.” 

Corona’s face grew grave. 

“ We must not talk of that yet,” she said, gently, “ even 
in jest.” 

“ No ; you are right. Forgive me,” he answered ; “ I 
forget many things — it seems to me I have forgotten 
everything, except that I love you.” 

“ Giovanni,” — she lingered on the name, — “ Giovanni, 
we must tell your father at once.” 

“Are you willing I should ? ” he asked, eagerly. 

“ Of course — he ought to know ; and Sister Gabrielle 
too. But no one else must be told. There must be no 
talk of this in Rome until — until next year.” 

“We will stay in the country until then, shall we 
not ? ” asked Giovanni, anxiously. “ It seems to me so 
much better. We can meet here, and nobody will talk. 
I will go and live in the town at Astrardente, and play 
the engineer, and build your roads for you.” 

“ I hardly know,” said Corona, with a doubtful smile. 
“You could not do that. But you may come and spend 
the day once — in a week, perhaps.” 

“ We will arrange all that,” answered Giovanni, laugh- 
ing. “ If you think I can exist by only seeing you once 
a week — well, you do not know me.” 

“We shall see,” returned Corona, laughing too. “By 
the bye, how long have we been here ? ” 

“I do not know,” said Giovanni; “but the view is 
magnificent, is it not ? ” 

“Enchanting,” she replied, looking into his eyes. 
Then suddenly the blood mounted to her cheeks. “ Oh, 
Giovanni,” she said, “ how could I do it ? ” 

“ I should have died if you had not,” he answered, and 
clasped her once more in his arms. 

“ Come,” said she, “ let us be going down. It is grow- 
ing late.” 

When they reached the foot of the tower, they found 


832 


SARACINESCA. 


the Prince walking the rampart alone. Sister Gabrielle 
was afraid of the evening air, and had retired into the 
house. Old Saracinesca faced them suddenly. He looked 
like an old lion, his thick white hair and beard bristling 
about his dark features. 

“ My father,” said Giovanni, coming forward, “ the 
Duchessa d’Astrardente has consented to be my wife. I 
crave your blessing.” 

The old man started, and then stood stock-still. His 
son had fairly taken his breath away, for he had not ex- 
pected the news for three or four months to come. Then 
he advanced and took Corona’s hand, and kissed it. 

“ Madam,” he said, “ you have done my son an honour 
which extends to myself and to every Saracinesca, dead, 
living, and to come.” 

Then he laid Corona’s hand in Giovanni’s, and held 
his own upon them both. 

“ God bless you,” he said, solemnly ; and as Corona 
bent her proud head, he touched her forehead with his 
lips. Then he embraced Giovanni, and his joy broke out 
in wild enthusiasm. 

“ Ha, my children,” he cried, “ there has not been such 
a couple as you are for generations — there has not been 
such good news told in these old walls since they have 
stood here. We will illuminate the castle, the whole 
town, in your honour — we will ring the bells and have a 
Te Deum sung — we will have such a festival as was never 
seen before — we will go to Rome to-morrow and celebrate 
the espousal — we will ” 

“ Softly, padre mio interrupted Giovanni. “No one 
must know as yet. You must consider ” 

“ Consider what ? consider the marriage ? Of course we 
will consider it, as soon as you please. You shall have 
such a wedding as was never heard of — you shall be mar- 
ried by the Cardinal Archpriest of Saint Peter’s, by the 
Holy Father himself. The whole country shall ring with 
it.” 

It was with difficulty Giovanni succeeded in calming his 


SARACINESCA. 


338 


father’s excitement, and in recalling to his mind the cir- 
cumstances which made it necessary to conceal the engage- 
ment for the present. But at last the old man reluctantly 
consented, and returned to a quieter humour. For some 
time the three continued to pace the stone rampart. 

“ This is a case of arrant cruelty to a man of my tem- 
per,” said the Prince. “To be expected to behave like an 
ordinary creature, with grins and smiles and decent paces, 
when I have just heard what I have longed to hear for 
years. But I will revenge myself by making a noise about 
it by-and-by. I will concoct schemes for your wedding, 
and dream of nothing but illuminations and decorations. 
You shall be Prince of Sant’ Ilario, Giovanni, as I was 
before my father died ; and I will give you that estate 
outright, and the palace in the Corso to live in.” 

“ Perhaps we might live in my palace,” suggested Co- 
rona. It seemed strange to her to be discussing her own 
marriage, but it was necessary to humour the old Prince. 

“Of course,” he said. “I forgot all about it. You 
have places enough to live in. One forgets that you will 
in the end be the richest couple in Italy. Ha ! ” he cried, 
in sudden enthusiasm, “ the Saracinesca are not dead yet ! 
They are greater than ever — and our lands here so near 
together, too. We will build a new road to Astrardente, 
and when you are married you shall be the first to drive 
over it from Astrardente here. We will do all kinds of 
things — we will tunnel the mountain ! ” 

“ I am sure you will do that in the end,” said Giovanni, 
laughing. 

“ Well — -let us go to dinner,” answered his father. “ It 
has grown quite dark since we have been talking, and we 
shall be falling over the edge if we are not careful.” 

“I will go and tell Sister Gabrielle before dinner,” said 
Corona to Giovanni. 

So they left her at the door of her apartment, and she 
went in. She found the Sister in an inner room, with a 
book of devotions in her hand. 

“ Pray for me, my Sister,” she said, quietly. “ I have 


834 


SARACINESCA. 


resolved upon a great step. I am going to be married 
again.” 

Sister Gabrielle looked up, and a quiet smile stole over 
her thin face. 

“ It is soon, my friend,” she said. “ It is soon to think 
of that. But perhaps you are right — is it the young 
Prince ? ” 

“ Yes,” answered Corona, and sank into a deep tapestried 
chair. “ It is soon I know well. But it has been long — 
I have struggled hard — I love him very much — so much, 
you do not know ! ” 

The Sister sighed faintly, and came and took her 
hand. 

“ It is right that you should marry,” she said, gently. 
“ You are too young, too famously beautiful, too richly 
endowed, to lead the life you have led at Astrardente 
these many months.” 

“ It is not that,” said Corona, an expression of strange 
beauty illuminating her lovely face. “Not that I am 
young, beautiful as you say, if it is so, or endowed with 
riches — those reasons are nothing. It is this that tells 
me,” she whispered, pressing her left hand to her heart. 
“ When one loves as I love, it is right.” 

“Indeed it is,” assented the good Sister. “And I 
think you have chosen wisely. When will you be 
married ? ” 

“ Hardly before next summer — I can hardly think con- 
nectedly yet — it has been very sudden. I knew I should 
marry him in the end, but I never thought I could con- 
sent so soon. Oh, Sister Gabrielle, you are so good — 
were you never in love ? ” 

The Sister was silent, and looked away. 

- “ No — of course you cannot tell me,” continued Corona; 
“ but it is such a wonderful thing. It makes days seem 
like hundreds of years, or makes them pass in a flash of 
light, in a second. It oversets every idea of time, and 
plays with one’s resolutions as the wind .with a feather. 
If once it gets the mastery of one, it crowds a lifetime of 


SARACINESCA. 


335 


pain and pleasure into one day ; it never leaves one for a 
moment. I cannot explain love — it is a wonderful thing.” 

“ My dear friend,” said the Sister, “ the explanation 
of love is life.” 

“ But the end of it is not death. It cannot be,” con- 
tinued Corona, earnestly. “ It must last for ever and ever. 
It must grow better and purer and stronger, until it is 
perfect in heaven at last : but where is the use of trying 
to express such things ? ” 

“ I think it is enough to feel them,” said Sister 
Gabrielle. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

The summer season ripened into autumn, and autumn 
again turned to winter, and Rome was once more full. The 
talk of society turned frequently upon the probability of 
the match between the Duchessa d’Astrardente and Gio- 
vanni Saracinesca ; and when at last, three weeks before 
Lent, the engagement was made known, there was a gen- 
eral murmur of approbation. It seemed as though the 
momentous question of Corona’s life, which had for years 
agitated the gossips, were at last to be settled : every one 
had been accustomed to regard her marriage with old 
Astrardente as a temporary affair, seeing that he certainly 
could not live long, and speculation in regard to her 
future had been nearly as common during his lifetime as 
it was after his death. One of the duties most congenial 
to society, and one which it never fails to perform con- 
scientiously, is that judicial astrology, whereby it fore- 
casts the issue of its neighbour’s doings. Everybody’s 
social horoscope must be cast by the circle of five-o’clock- 
tea-drinking astro-sociologists, and, generally speaking, 
their predictions are not far short of the truth, for 
society knoweth its own bitterness, and is uncommonly 
qtiick in the diagnosis of its own state of health. 


336 


SARACINESCA. 


When it was announced that Corona was to marry 
Giovanni after Easter, society looked and saw that the 
arrangement was good. There was not one dissenting 
voice heard in the universal applause. Corona had be- 
haved with exemplary decency during the year of her 
mourning — had lived a life of religious retirement upon 
her estates in the sole company of a Sister of Charity, had 
given no cause for scandal in any way. Everybody aspired 
to like her — that is to say, to be noticed by her ; but with 
one exception, she had caused no jealousy nor ill-feeling 
by her indifference, for no one had ever heard her say an 
unkind word concerning anybody she knew. Donna Tullia 
had her own reasons for hating Corona, and perhaps the 
world suspected them ; but people did not connect the 
noisy Donna Tullia, full of animal spirits and gay silly 
talk, with the idea of serious hatred, much less with the 
execution of any scheme of revenge. 

Indeed Madame Mayer had not spent the summer and 
autumn in nursing her wrath against Corona. She bad 
travelled with the old Countess, her companion, and several 
times Ugo del Ferice had appeared suddenly at the water- 
ing-places which she had selected for her temporary resi- 
dence. From time to time he gave her news of mutual 
friends, which she repaid conscientiously with interesting 
accounts of the latest scandals. They were a congenial 
pair, and Ugo felt that by his constant attention to her 
wishes, and by her never-varying willingness to accept his 
service, he had obtained a hold upon her intimacy which, 
in the ensuing winter, would give him a decided advantage 
over all competitors in the field. She believed that she 
might have married half-a-dozen times, and that with her 
fortune she could easily have made a very brilliant match ; 
she even thought that she could have married Valdarno, 
who was very good-natured : but her attachment to Gio- 
vanni, and the expectations she had so long entertained in 
regard to him, had prevented her from showing any marked 
preference for others ; and while she was hesitating, Del 
Ferice, by his superior skill, had succeeded in making him- 


SARACINESCA. 


337 


self indispensable to her — a success the more remarkable 
that, in spite of his gifts and the curious popularity he 
enjoyed, he was by far the least desirable man of her 
acquaintance from the matrimonial point of view. 

But when Donna Tullia again met Giovanni in the 
world, the remembrance of her wrongs revived her anger 
against him, and the news of his engagement to the As- 
trardente brought matters to a climax. In the excite- 
ment of the moment, both her jealousy and her anger 
were illuminated by the light of a righteous wrath. She 
knew, or thought she knew, that Don Giovanni was al- 
ready married. She had no proof that the peasant wife 
mentioned in the certificate was alive, but there was 
nothing either to show that she was dead. Even in the 
latter case it was a scandalous thing that he should marry 
again without informing Corona of the circumstances of 
his past life, and Donna Tullia felt an inner conviction 
that he had told the Duchessa nothing of the matter. 
The latter was such a proud woman, that she would be 
horrified at the idea of uniting herself to a man who had 
been the husband of a peasant. 

Madame Mayer remembered her solemn promise to Del 
Ferice, and feared to act without his consent. An hour 
after she had heard the news of the engagement, she sent 
for him to come to her immediately. To her astonish- 
ment and dismay, her servant brought back word that he 
had suddenly gone to Naples upon urgent business. This 
news made her pause ; but while the messenger had been 
gone to Del Fence’s house, Donna Tullia had been antic- 
ipating and going over in her mind the scene which would 
ensue when she told Corona the secret. Donna Tullia 
was a very sanguine woman, and the idea of at last being 
revenged for all the slights she had received worked sud- 
denly upon her brain, so that as she paced her drawing- 
room in expectation of the arrival of Del Ferice, she en- 
tirely acted out in her imagination the circumstances of 
the approaching crisis, the blood beat hotly in her tem- 
ples, and she lost all sense, of prudence in the delicious 

v 


388 


SARACINESCA. 


anticipation of violent words. Del Ferice had cruelly 
calculated upon her temperament, and he had hoped that 
in the excitement of the moment she would lose her head, 
and irrevocably commit herself to him by the betrayal of 
the secret. This was precisely what occurred. On being 
told that he was out of town, she could no longer contain 
herself, and with a sudden determination to risk anything 
blindly, rather than to forego the pleasure and the excite- 
ment she had been meditating, she ordered her carriage 
and drove to the Palazzo Astrardente. 

Corona was surprised at the imexpected visit. She 
was herself on the point of going out, and was standing 
in her boudoir, drawing on her black gloves before the 
fire, while her furs lay upon a chair at her side. She 
wondered why Donna Tullia called, and it was in part 
her curiosity which induced her to receive her visit. 
Donna Tullia, armed to the teeth with the terrible news 
she was about to disclose, entered the room quickly, and 
remained standing before the Duchessa with a semi-tragic 
air that astonished Corona. 

“ How do you do, Donna Tullia ? ” said the latter, put- 
ting out her hand. 

“ I have come to speak to you upon a very serious mat- 
ter,” answered her visitor, without noticing the greeting. 

Corona stared at her for a moment, but not being 
easily disconcerted, she quietly motioned to Donna 
Tullia to sit down, and installed herself in a chair oppo- 
site to her. 

“I have just heard the news that you are to marry Don 
Giovanni Saracinesca,” said Madame Mayer. “You will 
pardon me the interest I take in you ; but is it true ? ” 

“ It is quite true,” answered Corona. 

“ It is in connection with your marriage that I wish 
to speak, Duchessa. I implore you to reconsider your 
decision.” 

“ And why, if you please ? ” asked Corona, raising her 
black eyebrows, and fixing her haughty gaze upon her 
visitor. 


SARACINESCA. 


339 


“I could tell you — I would rather not,” answered 
Donna Tullia, unabashed, for her blood was up. “I 
could tell you — but I beseech you not to ask me. Only 
consider the matter again, I beg you. It is. very serious. 
Nothing but the great interest I feel in you, and my con- 
viction ” 

“ Donna Tullia, your conduct is so extraordinary,” in- 
terrupted Corona, looking at her curiously, “ that I am 
tempted to believe you are mad. I must beg you to ex- 
plain what you mean by your words.” 

“Ah, no,” answered Madame Mayer. “You do me 
injustice. I am not mad, but I would save you from the 
most horrible danger.” 

“ Again I say, what do you mean ? I will not be trifled 
with in this way,” said the Duchessa, who would have 
been more angry if she had been less astonished, but 
whose temper was rapidly rising. 

“I am not trifling with you,” returned Donna Tullia. 
“ I am imploring you to think before you act, before you 
marry Don Giovanni. You cannot think that I would 
venture to intrude upon you without the strongest rea- 
sons. I am in earnest.” 

“ Then, in heaven’s name, speak out ! ” cried Corona, 
losing all patience. “ I presume that if this is a warn- 
ing, you have some grounds, you have some accusation 
to make against Don Giovanni. Have the goodness to 
state what you have to say, and be brief.” 

“ I will,” said Donna Tullia, and she paused a moment, 
her face growing red with excitement, and her blue eyes 
sparkling disagreeably. “You cannot marry Don Gio- 
vanni,” she said at length, “because there is an insur- 
mountable impediment in the way.” 

“What is it?” asked Corona, controlling her anger. 

“ He is already married ! ” hissed Donna Tullia. 

Corona turned a little pale, and started back. But in 
an instant her colour returned, and she broke into a low 
laugh. 

“You are certainly insane,” she said, eyeing Madame 


840 


SARACINESCA. 


Mayer suspiciously. It was not an easy matter to shake 
her faith in the man she loved. Donna Tullia was disap- 
pointed at the effect she had produced. She was a clever 
woman in her way, but she did not understand how to 
make the best of the situation. She saw that she was 
simply an object of curiosity, and that Corona seriously 
believed her mind deranged. She was frightened, and, 
in order to help herself, she plunged deeper. 

“You may call me mad, if you please/’ she replied, 
angrily. “ I tell you it is true. Don Giovanni was mar- 
ried on the 19th of June 1863, at Aquila, in the Abruzzi, 
to a woman called Felice Baldi — whoever she may have 
been. The register is extant, and the duplicate of the 
marriage certificate. I have seen the copies attested by 
a notary. I tell you it is true,” she continued, her voice 
rising to a harsh treble ; “you are engaged to marry a man 
who has a wife — a peasant woman — somewhere in the 
mountains.” 

Corona rose from her seat and put out her hand to ring 
the bell. She was pale, but not excited. She believed 
Donna Tullia to be insane, perhaps dangerous, and she 
calmly proceeded to protect herself by calling for assist- 
ance. 

“ Either you are mad, or you mean what you say,” she 
said, keeping her eyes upon the angry woman before her. 
“ You will not leave this house except in charge of my 
physician, if you are mad ; and if you mean what you say, 
you shall not go until you have repeated your words to 
Don Giovanni Saracinesca himself, — no, do not start or 
try to escape — it is of no use. I am very sudden and 
violent — beware ! ” 

Donna Tullia bit her red lip. She was beginning to 
realise that she had got herself into trouble, and that it 
might be hard to get out of it. But she felt herself 
strong, and she wished she had with her those proofs 
which would make her case good. She was so sanguine 
by nature that she was willing to carry the fight to the 
end, and to take her chance for the result. 


SARACINESCA. 


341 


“ You may send for Don Giovanni if you please,” she 
said. “ I have spoken the truth — if he denies it I can 
prove it. If I were you I would spare him the humilia- 
tion ” 

A servant entered the room in answer to the bell, and 
Corona interrupted Donna Tullia’s speech by giving the 
man her orders. 

“ Go at once to the Palazzo Saracinesca, and beg Don 
Giovanni to come here instantly with his father the Prince. 
Take the carriage — it is waiting below.” 

The man disappeared, and Corona quietly resumed her 
seat. Donna Tullia was silent for a few moments, at- 
tempting to control her anger in an assumption of dignity ; 
but soon she broke out afresh, being rendered very nervous 
and uncomfortable by the Duchessa’s calm manner and 
apparent indifference to consequences. 

“ I cannot see why you should expose yourself to such 
a scene,” said Madame Mayer presently. “I honestly 
wished to save you from a terrible danger. It seems to 
me it would be quite sufficient if I proved the fact to you 
beyond dispute. I should think that instead of being 
angry, you would show some gratitude.” 

“ I am not angry,” answered Corona, quietly. “ I am 
merely giving you an immediate opportunity of proving 
your assertion and your sanity.” 

“ My sanity ! ” exclaimed Donna Tullia, angrily. “ Do 
you seriously believe ” 

“Nothing that you say,” said Corona, completing the 
sentence. 

Unable to bear the situation, Madame Mayer rose sud- 
denly from her seat, and began to pace the small room 
with short, angry steps. 

“You shall see,” she said, fiercely — “you shall see that 
it is all true. You shall see this man’s face when I accuse 
him — you shall see him humiliated, overthrown, exposed 
in his villany — the wretch ! You shall see how ” 

Corona’s strong voice interrupted her enemy’s invective 
in ringing tones. 


342 


SARACINESCA. 


“ Be silent ! ” slie cried. “ In twenty minutes he will 
be here. But if you say one word against him before he 
comes, I will lock you into this room and leave you. I 
certainly will not hear you.” 

Donna Tullia reflected that the Duchessa was in her 
own house, and moreover that she was not a woman to be 
trifled with. She threw herself into a chair, and taking 
up a book that lay upon the table, she pretended to read. 

Corona remained seated by the fireplace, glancing at 
her from time to time. She was strangely inclined to 
laugh at the whole situation, which seemed to her absurd 
in the extreme — for it never crossed her mind to believe 
that there was a word of truth in the accusation against 
Giovanni. Nevertheless she was puzzled to account for 
Donna Tullia’s assurance, and especially for her readiness 
to face the man she so calumniated. A quarter of an hour 
elapsed in this armed silence — the two women glancing 
at each other from time to time, until the distant sound 
of wheels rolling under the great gate announced that 
the messenger had returned from the Palazzo Saracinesca, 
probably conveying Don Giovanni and his father. 

“ Then you have made up your mind to the humiliation 
of the man you love ? ” asked Donna Tullia, looking up 
from her book with a sneer on her face. 

Corona vouchsafed no answer, but her eyes turned to- 
wards the door in expectation. Presently there were 
steps heard without. The servant entered, and an- 
nounced Prince Saracinesca and Don Giovanni. Corona 
rose. The old man came in first, followed by his son. 

“ An unexpected pleasure,” he said, gaily. “ Such good 
luck ! We were both at home. Ah, Donna Tullia,” he 
cried, seeing Madame Mayer, “ how are you ? ” Then 
seeing her face, he added, suddenly, “Is anything the 
matter ? ” 

Meanwhile Giovanni had entered, and stood by Corona’s 
side near the fireplace. He saw at once that something 
was wrong, and he looked anxiously from the Duchessa to 
Donna Tullia. Corona spoke at once. 


SARACINESCA. 


343 


“ Donna Tullia,” she said, quietly, “ I have the honour 
to offer you an opportunity of explaining yourself.” 

Madame Mayer remained seated by the table, her face 
red with anger. She leaned back in her seat, and half 
closing her eyes with a disagreeable look of contempt, she 
addressed Giovanni. 

“ I am sorry to cause you such profound humiliation,” 
she began, “ but in the interest of the Duchessa d’ Astrar- 
dente I feel bound to speak. Don Giovanni, do you re- 
member Aquila ? ” 

“ Certainly,” he replied, coolly — “ I have often been 
there. What of it ? ” 

Old Saracinesca stared from one to the other. 

“ What is this comedy ? ” he asked of Corona. But she 
nodded to him to be silent. 

“Then you doubtless remember Felice Baldi — poor 
Felice Baldi,” continued Donna Tullia, still gazing scorn- 
fully up at Giovanni from where she sat. 

“I never heard the name, that I can remember,” 
answered Giovanni, as though trying to recall some 
memory of the past. He could not imagine what she 
was leading to, but he was willing to answer her ques- 
tions. 

“You do not remember that you were married to her 
at Aquila on the 19th of June ? ” 

“ I — married ? ” cried Giovanni, in blank astonishment. 

“ Signora Duchessa,” said the Prince, bending his heavy 
brows, “ what is the meaning of all this ? ” 

“ I will tell you the meaning of it,” said Donna Tullia, 
in low hissing tones, and rising suddenly to her feet she 
assumed a somewhat theatrical attitude as she pointed to 
Giovanni. “ I will tell what it means. It means that 
Don Giovanni Saracinesca was married in the church of 
San Bernardino, at Aquila, on the 19th of June 1863, to 
the woman Felice Baldi — who is his lawful wife to-day, 
and for aught we know the mother of his children, while 
he is here in Borne attempting to marry the Duchessa 
d’Astrardente — can he deny it ? Can he deny that his 


344 


SARACINESCA. 


own signature is there, there in the office of the Stato 

Civile at Aquila, to testify against him ? Can he ? ” 

“ Silence !” roared the Prince. “ Silence, woman, or by 
God in heaven I will stop your talking for ever ! ” He 
made a step towards her, and there was a murderous red 
light in his black eyes. But Giovanni sprang forward and 
seized his father by the wrist. 

“You cannot silence me/’ screamed Donna Tullia. “I 
will be heard, and by all Koine. I will cry it upon the 

housetops to all the world ” 

“Then you will precipitate your confinement in the 
asylum of Santo Spirito,” said Giovanni, in cold, calm 
tones. “ You are clearly mad.” 

“ So I said,” assented Corona, who was nevertheless 
pale, and trembling with excitement. 

“ Allow me to speak with her,” said Giovanni, who, like 
most dangerous men, seemed to grow cold as others grew 
hot. Donna Tullia leaned upon the table, breathing hard 
between her closed teeth, her face scarlet. 

“Madame,” said Giovanni, advancing a step and con- 
fronting her, “ you say that I am married, and that I am 
contemplating a monstrous crime. Upon what do you base 
your extraordinary assertions ? ” 

“ Upon attested copies of your marriage certificate, of 
the civil register where your handwriting has been seen 
and recognised. What more would you have ? ” 

“It is monstrous !” cried the Prince, advancing again. 
“ It is the most abominable lie ever concocted ! My 
son married without my knowledge, and to a peasant ! 
Absurd ! ” 

But Giovanni waved his father back, and kept his place 
before Donna Tullia. 

“I give you the alternative of producing instantly those 
proofs you refer to,” he said, “ and which you certainly 
cannot produce, or of waiting in this house until a com- 
petent physician has decided whether you are sufficiently 
sane to be allowed to go home alone.” 

Donna Tullia hesitated. She was in a terrible position, 


SARACINESCA. 


845 


for Del Ferice had left Rome suddenly, and though the 
papers were somewhere in his house, she knew not where, 
nor how to get at them. It was impossible to imagine a 
situation more desperate, and she felt it as she looked 
round and saw the pale dark faces of the three resolute 
persons whose anger she had thus roused. She believed 
that Giovanni was capable of anything, but she was 
astonished at his extraordinary calmness. She hesitated 
for a moment. 

“That is perfectly just,” said Corona. “If you have 
proofs, you can produce them. If you have none, you 
are insane.” 

“I have them, and I will produce them before this hour 
to-morrow,” answered Donna Tullia, not knowing how she 
should get the papers, but knowing that she was lost if 
she failed to obtain them. 

“ Why not to-day — at once ? ” asked Giovanni, with 
some scorn. 

“It will take twenty-four hours to forge them,” 
growled his father. 

“You have no right to insult me so grossly,” cried 
Donna Tullia. “But beware — I have you in my power. 
By this time to-morrow you shall see with your own 
eyes that I speak the truth. Let me go,” she cried, as 
the old Prince placed himself between her and the door. 

“ I will,” said he. “ But before you go, I beg you to 
observe that if between now and the time you show us 
these documents you breathe abroad one word of your 
accusations, I will have you arrested as a dangerous 
lunatic, and lodged in Santo Spirito ; and if these papers 
are not authentic, you will be arrested to-morrow after- 
noon on a charge of forgery. You quite understand 
me ? ” He stood aside to let her pass. She laughed 
scornfully in his face, and went out. 

When she was gone the three looked at each other, as 
though trying to comprehend what had happened. In- 
deed, it was beyond their comprehension. Corona 
leaned against the chimneypiece, and her eyes rested 


346 


SAEACINESCA. 


lovingly upon Giovanni. !STo doubt had ever crossed her 
mind of his perfect honesty. Old Saracinesca looked 
from one to the other for a moment, and then, striking 
the palms of his hands together, turned and began to 
walk up and down the room. 

“ In the first place/’ said Giovanni, “ at the time she 
mentions I was in Canada, upon a shooting expedition, 
with a party of Englishmen. It is easy to prove that, as 
they are all alive and well now, so far as I have heard. 
Donna Tullia is clearly out of her mind.” 

“ The news of your engagement has driven her mad,” 
said the old Prince, with a grim laugh. “ It is a very 
interesting and romantic case.” 

Corona blushed a little, and her eyes sought Giovanni’s, 
but her face was very grave. It was a terrible thing to 
see a person she had known so long becoming insane, and 
for the sake of the man she herself so loved. And yet 
she had not a doubt of Donna Tullia’s madness. It was 
very sad. 

“I wonder who could have put this idea into her 
head,” said Giovanni, thoughtfully. “It does not look 
like a creation of her own brain. I wonder, too, what 
absurdities she will produce in the way of documents. 
Of course they must be forged.” 

“She will not bring them,” returned his father, in a 
tone of certainty. “We shall hear to-morrow that she 
is raving in the. delirium of a brain-fever.” 

“ Poor thing ! ” exclaimed Corona. “ It is dreadful to 
think of it.” 

“ It is dreadful to think that she should have caused 
you all this trouble and annoyance,” said Giovanni, 
warmly. “ You must have had a terrible scene with her 
before we came. What did she say ? ” 

“ Just what she said to you. Then she began to rail 
against you ; and I sent for you, and told her that unless 
she could be silent I would lock her up alone until you 
arrived. So she sat down in that chair, and pretended 
to read. But it was an immense relief when you came !” 


SARACINESCA. 347 

“ You did not once believe what she said might possibly 
be true ? ” asked Giovanni, with a loving look. 

“ I ? How could you ever think it ! ” exclaimed Corona. 
Then she laughed, and added, “ But of course you knew 
that I would not.” 

“Indeed, yes,” he answered. “It never entered my 
head.” 

“ By-the-bye,” said old Saracinesca, glancing at the 
Duchessa’s black bonnet and gloved hands, “ you must 
have been just ready to go out when she came — we must 
not keep you. I suppose that when she said she would 
bring her proofs to-morrow at this hour, she meant she 
would bring them here. Shall we come to-morrow then ? ” 

“Yes — by all means,” she answered. “Come to break- 
fast at one o’clock. I am alone, you know, for Sister 
Gabrielle has insisted upon going back to her community. 
But what does it matter now ? ” 

“What does it matter ? ” echoed the Prince. “You are 
to be married so soon. I really think we can do as we 
please.” He generally did as he pleased. 

The two men left her, and a few minutes later she de- 
scended the steps of the palace and entered her carriage, 
•as though nothing had happened. 

Six months had passed since she had given her troth to 
Giovanni upon the tower of Saracinesca, and she new 
that she loved him better now than then. Little had hap- 
pened of interest in the interval of time, and the days had 
seemed long. But until after Christmas she had remained 
at Astrardente, busying herself constantly with the im- 
provements she had already begun, and aided by the coun- 
sels of Giovanni. He had taken a cottage of hers in the 
lower part of her village, and had fitted it up with the 
few comforts he judged necessary. In this lodging he had 
generally spent half the week, going daily to the palace 
upon the hill and remaining for long hours in Corona’s 
society, studying her plans and visiting with her the works 
which grew beneath their joint direction. She had grown 
to know him as she had not known him before, and to 


348 


SARACINESCA. 


understand more fully liis manly character. He was a 
very resolute man, and very much in earnest when he 
chanced to be doing anything ; but the strain of melan- 
choly which he inherited from his mother made him often 
inclined to a sort of contemplative idleness, during which 
his mind seemed preoccupied with absorbing thoughts. 
Many people called his fits of silence an affectation, or 
part of his system for rendering himself interesting ; but 
Corona soon saw how real was his abstraction, and she saw 
also that she alone was able to attract his attention and 
interest him when the fit was upon him. Slowly, by a 
gradual study of him, she learned what few had ever 
guessed, namely, that beneath the experienced man of the 
world, under his modest manner and his gentle ways* there 
lay a powerful mainspring of ambition, a mine of strength, 
which would one day exert itself and make itself felt upon 
his surroundings. He had developed slowly, feeding upon 
many experiences of the world in many countries, his quick 
Italian • intelligence comprehending often more than it 
seemed to do, while the quiet dignity he got from his 
Spanish blood made him appear often very cold. But now 
and again, when under the influence of some large idea, 
his tongue was loosed in the charm of Corona’s presence, 
and he spoke to her, as he had never spoken to any one, 
of projects and plans which should make the world move. 
She did not always understand him wholly, but she knew 
that the man she loved was something more than the 
world at large believed him to be, and there was a thrill 
of pride in the thought which delighted her inmost soul. 
She, too, was ambitious, but her ambition was all for him. 
She felt that there was little room for common aspirations 
in his position or in her own. All that high birth, and 
wealth, and personal consideration could give, they both 
had abundantly, beyond their utmost wishes ; anything 
they could desire beyond that must lie in a larger sphere 
of action than mere society, in the world of political power. 
She herself had had dreams, and entertained them still, 
of founding some great institution of charity, of doing 


SARACINESCA. 


349 


something for her poorer fellows. But she learned by 
degrees that Giovanni looked further than to such ordi- 
nary means of employing power, and that there was in him 
a great ambition to bring great forces to bear upon great 
questions for the accomplishment of great results. The 
six months of her engagement to him had not only 
strengthened her love for him, already deep and strong, 
but had implanted in her an unchanging determination to 
second him in all his life, to omit nothing in her power 
which could assist him in the career he should choose for 
himself, and which she regarded as the ultimate field for 
his extraordinary powers. It was strange that, while 
granting him everything else, people had never thought of 
calling him a man of remarkable intelligence. But no one 
knew him as Corona knew him ; no one suspected that 
there was in him anything more than the traditional tem- 
per of the Saracinesca, with sufficient mind to make him 
as fair a representative of his race as his father was. 

There was more than mere love and devotion in the 
complete security she felt when she saw him attacked by 
Donna Tullia ; there was already the certainty that he 
was born to be above small things, and to create a sphere 
of his own in which he would move as other men could not. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

When Donna Tullia quitted the Palazzo Astrardente 
her head swam. She had utterly failed to do what she 
had expected ; and from being the accuser, she felt that 
she was suddenly thrust into the position of the accused. 
Instead of inspiring terror in Corona, and causing Gio- 
vanni the terrible humiliation she had supposed he would 
feel at the exposure of his previous marriage, she had been 
coldly told that she was mad, and that her pretended 


350 


SARACINESCA. 


proofs were forgeries. Though she herself felt no doubt 
whatever concerning the authenticity of the documents, 
it was very disappointing to find that the first mention of 
them produced no startling effect upon any one, least of 
all upon Giovanni himself. The man, she thought, was 
a most accomplished villain ; since he was capable of 
showing such hardened indifference to her accusation, he 
was capable also of thwarting her in her demonstration 
of their truth — and she trembled at the thought of what 
she saw. Old Saracinesca was not a man to be trifled with, 
nor his son either : they were powerful, and would be 
revenged for the insult. But in the meanwhile she had 
promised to produce her proofs ; and when she regained 
enough composure to consider the matter from all its 
points, she came to the conclusion that after all her game 
was not lost, seeing that attested documents are evidence 
not easily refuted, even by powerful men like Leone and 
Giovanni Saracinesca. She gradually convinced herself 
that their indifference was a pretence, and that they were 
accomplices in the matter, their object being to gain 
Corona with all her fortune for Giovanni’s wife. But, at 
the same time, Donna Tullia felt in the depths of her 
heart a misgiving : she was clever enough to recognise, 
even in spite of herself, the difference between a liar and 
an honest man. 

She must get possession of these papers — and immedi- 
ately too ; there must be no delay in showing them to 
Corona, and in convincing her that this was no mere 
fable, but an assertion founded upon very substantial 
evidence. Del Ferice was suddenly gone to Naples : 
obviously the only way to get at the papers was to bribe 
his servant to deliver them up. Ugo had once or twice 
mentioned Temistocle to her, and she judged from the 
few words he had let fall that the fellow was a scoundrel, 
who would sell his soul for money. Madame Mayer drove 
home, and put on the only dark-coloured gown she pos- 
sessed, wound a thick veil about her head, provided her- 
self with a number of bank-notes, which she thrust 


SARACINESCA. 


351 


between the palm of her hand and her glove, left the 
house on foot, and took a cab. There was nothing to be 
done but to go herself, for she could trust no one. Her 
heart beat fast as she ascended the narrow stone steps of 
Del Fence’s lodging, and stopped upon the landing before 
the small green door, whereon she read his name. She 
pulled the bell, and Temistocle appeared in his shirt- 
sleeves. 

“ Does Count Del Ferice live here ? ” asked Donna 
Tullia, peering over the man’s shoulder into the dark 
and narrow passage within. 

“He lives here, but he is gone to Naples, ” answered 
Temistocle, promptly. 

“ When will he be back ? ” she inquired. The man 
raised his shoulders to his ears, and spread out the palms 
of his hands to signify that he did not know. Donna 
Tullia hesitated. She had never attempted to bribe any- 
body in her life, and hardly knew how to go about it. 
She thought that the sight of the money might produce 
an impression, and she withdrew a bank-note from the hol- 
low of her hand, spreading it out between her fingers. 
Temistocle eyed it greedily. 

“ There are twenty-five scudi,” she said. “ If you will 
help me to find a piece of paper in your master’s room, 
you shall have them.” 

Temistocle drew himself up with an air of mock pride. 
Madame Mayer looked at him. 

“Impossible, signora,” he said. Then she drew out 
another. Temistocle eyed the glove curiously to see if 
it contained more. 

“ Signora,” he repeated, “ it is impossible. My master 
would kill me. - 1 cannot think of it.” But his tone 
seemed to yield a little. Donna Tullia found another 
bank-note ; there were now seventy-five scudi in her hand. 
She thought she saw Temistocle tremble with excitement. 
But still he hesitated. 

“ Signora, my conscience,” he said, in a low voice of 
protestation. 


352 


SAEACINESCA. 


“Come,” said Madame Mayer, impatiently, “there is 
another — there are a hundred scudi — that is all I have 
got,” she added, turning down her empty glove. 

Suddenly Temistocle put out his hand and grasped the 
bank-notes eagerly. But instead of retiring to allow her 
to enter, he pushed roughly past her. 

“You may go in,” he said in a hoarse whisper, and 
turning quickly, fled precipitately down the narrow steps, 
in his shirt-sleeves as he was. Madame Mayer stood for 
a moment looking after him in surprise, even when he 
had already disappeared. 

Then she turned and entered the door rather timidly ; 
but before she had gone two steps in the dark passage, 
she uttered a cry of horror. Del Ferice stood in her way, 
wrapped in a loose dressing-gown, a curious expression 
upon his pale face, which from its whiteness was clearly 
distinguishable in the gloom. Temistocle had cheated her, 
had lied in telling her that his master was absent, had 
taken her bribe and had fled. He would easily find an 
excuse for having allowed her to enter ; and with his quick 
valet’s instinct, he guessed that she would not confess to 
Del Ferice that she had bribed him. Ugo came forward 
a step and instantly recognised Madame Mayer. 

“ Donna Tullia ! ” he cried, “ what are you doing ? You 
must not be seen here.” 

A less clever man than Ugo would have pretended to be 
overjoyed at her coming. Del Fence’s fine instincts told 
him that for whatever cause she had come — and he guessed 
the cause well enough — he would get a firmer hold upon 
her consideration by appearing to be shocked at her im- 
prudence. Donna Tullia was nearly fainting with fright, 
and stood leaning against the wall of the passage. 

“ I thought — I — I must see you at once,” she stammered. 

“ Not here,” he answered, quickly. “Go home at once ; 
I will join you in five minutes. It will ruin you to have 
it known that you have been here.” 

Madame Mayer took courage at his tone. 

“ You must bring them — those papers,” she said, hur- 


SARACINESCA. 353 

riedly. “Something dreadful has happened. Promise 
me to come at once ! ” 

“I will come at once, my dear lady/’ he said, gently 
pushing her towards the door. “I cannot even go down- 
stairs with you — forgive me. You have your carriage of 
course ? ” 

“ I have a cab,” replied Donna Tullia, faintly, submit- 
ting to be put out of the door. He seized her hand and 
kissed it passionately, or with a magnificent semblance of 
passion. With a startled look, Donna Tullia turned and 
went rapidly down the steps. Del Perice smiled softly to 
himself when she was gone, and went in again to exchange 
his dressing-gown for a coat. He had her in his power at 
last. He had guessed that she would betray the secret — 
that after the engagement became known, she would not 
be able to refrain from communicating it to Corona d’ Astrar- 
dente ; and so soon as he heard the news, he had shut 
himself up in his lodging, pretending a sudden journey to 
Naples, determined not to set foot out of the house until 
he heard that Donna Tullia had committed herself. He 
knew that when she had once spoken she would make a 
desperate attempt to obtain the papers, for he knew that 
such an assertion as hers would need to be immediately 
proved, at the risk of her position in society. His plot 
had succeeded so far. His only anxiety was to know' 
w r hether she had mentioned his name in connection with 
the subject, but he guessed, from his knowledge of her 
character, that she would not do so : she would respect 
her oath enough to conceal his name, even while breaking 
her promise; she would enjoy taking the sole credit of 
the discovery upon herself, and she would shun an avowal 
which would proye her to have discussed with any one else 
the means of preventing the marriage, because it would 
be a confession of jealousy, and consequently of personal 
interest in Don Giovanni. Del Ferice was a very clever 
fellow. 

He put on his coat, and in five minutes was seated in a 
cab on his way to Donna Tullia’s house, with a large en- 

w 


354 


SARACINESCA. 


velope full of papers in his pocket. He found her as she 
had left him, her face still wrapped in a veil, walking up 
and down her drawing-room in great excitement. He ad- 
vanced and saluted her courteously, maintaining a digni- 
fied gravity of bearing which he judged fitting for the 
Occasion. 

“ And now, my dear lady/’ he said, gently, “ will you 
tell me exactly what you have done ? ” 

“ This morning,” answered Madame Mayer, in a stifled 
voice, “ I heard of the Astrardente’s engagement to Don 
Giovanni. It seemed such a terrible thing ! ” 

“ Terrible, indeed,’’ said Del Ferice, solemnly. 

“ I sent for you at once, to know what to do : they said 
you were gone to Naples. I thought, of course, that you 
would approve if you were here, because we ought to pre- 
vent such a dreadful crime — of course.” She waited for 
some sign of assent, but Del Ferice’s pale face expressed 
nothing but a sort of grave reproach. 

“ And then,” she continued, “ as I could not find you, I 
thought it was best to act at once, and so I went to see the 
Astrardente, feeling that you would entirely support me. 
There was a terrific scene. She sent for the two Saracin- 
esca, and I — waited till they came, because I was deter- 
mined to see justice done. I am sure I was right, — was 
I not?” 

“ What did they say ? ” asked Del Ferice, quietly watch- 
ing her face. 

“ If you will believe it, that monster of villany, Don 
Giovanni, was as cold as stone, and denied the whole matter 
from beginning to end ; but his father was very angry. Of 
course they demanded the proofs. I never saw anything 
like the brazen assurance of Don Giovanni.” 

“ Did you mention me ? ” inquired Del Ferice. 

“ No, I had not seen you : of course I did not want to 
implicate you. I said I would show them the papers to- 
morrow at the same hour.” 

“And then you came to see me,” said Del Ferice. 
“ That was very rash. You might have seriously com- 


SARACINESCA. 355 

promised, yourself. I would have come if you had sent 
for me.” 

“But they said you had gone £o Naples. Your ser- 
vant / 7 continued Donna Tullia, blushing scarlet at the 
remembrance of her interview with Temistocle, — “ your 
servant assured me in person that you had gone to 
Naples ” 

“ I see / 7 replied Del Ferice, quietly. He did not wish 
to press her to a confession of having tried to get the 
papers in his absence. His object was to put her at her 
ease. 

“ My dear lady / 7 he continued, gently, “ you have done 
an exceedingly rash thing ; but I will support you in every 
way, by putting the documents in your possession at 
once. It is unfortunate that you should have acted so 
suddenly, for we do not know what has become of this 
Felice Baldi, nor have we any immediate means of find- 
ing out. It might have taken weeks to find her. Why 
were you so rash ? You could have waited till I returned, 
and we could have discussed the matter carefully, and 
decided whether it were really wise to make use of my 
information . 77 

“You do not doubt that I did right ? 77 asked Donna 
Tullia, turning a little pale. 

“ I think you acted precipitately in speaking without 
consulting me. All may yet be well. But in the first 
place, as you did not ask my opinion, you will see the 
propriety of not mentioning my name, since you have 
not done so already. It can do no good, for the papers 
speak for themselves, and whatever value they may have 
is inherent in them. Do you see ? 77 

“ Of course, there is no need of mentioning you, unless 
you wish to have a share in the exposure of this abom- 
inable wickedness . 77 

“I am satisfied with my share / 7 replied Del Ferice, 
with a quiet smile. 

“ It is not an important one / 7 returned Donna Tullia, 
nervously. 


356 


SARACINESCA. 


“It is the lion’s share,” he answered. “Most adorable 
of women, you have not, I am sure, forgotten the terms of 
our agreement — terms so dear to me, that every word of 
them is engraven for ever upon the tablet of my heart.” 

Madame Mayer started slightly. She had not realised 
that her promise to marry Ugo was now due — she did 
not believe that he would press it ; he had exacted it to 
frighten her, and besides, she had so persuaded herself 
that he would approve of her conduct, that she had not 
felt as though she were betraying his secret. 

“ You will not — you cannot hold me to that ; you ap- 
prove of telling the Astrardente, on the whole, — it is the 
same as though I had consulted you ” 

“ Pardon me, my dear lady ; you did not consult me,” 
answered Del Ferice, soothingly. He sat near her by 
the fire, his hat upon his knee, no longer watching her, 
but gazing contemplatively at the burning logs. There 
was a delicacy about his pale face since the wound he 
had received a year before which was rather attractive : 
from having been a little inclined to stoutness, he had 
grown slender and more graceful, partly because his 
health had really been affected by his illness, and partly 
because he had determined never again to risk being too 
fat. 

“I tried to consult you,” objected Donna Tullia. “It 
is the same thing.” 

“It is not the same thing to me,” he answered, “al- 
though you have not involved me in the affair. I would 
have most distinctly advised you to say nothing about it 
at present. You have acted rashly, have put yourself in 
a most painful, situation ; and you have broken your 
promise to me — a very solemn promise, Donna Tullia, 
sworn upon the memory of your mother and upon a 
holy relic. One cannot make light of such promises as 
that.” 

“You made me give it in order to frighten me. The 
Church does not bind us to oaths sworn under compul- 
sion,” she argued. 


SARACINESCA. 


357 


“ Excuse me; there was no compulsion whatever. You 
wanted to know my secret, and for the sake of knowing 
it you bound yourself. That is not compulsion. I can- 
not compel you. I could not think of presuming to com- 
pel you to marry me now. But I can say to you that I 
am devotedly attached to you, that to marry you is the 
aim and object of my life, and if you refuse, I will tell 
you that you are doing a great wrong, repudiating a sol- 
emn contract ” 

“If I refuse — well — but you would give me the 
papers ? ” asked Donna Tullia, who was beginning to 
tremble for the result of the interview. She had a 
vague suspicion that, for the sake of obtaining them, she 
would even be willing to promise to marry Del Ferice. 
It would be very wrong, perhaps ; but it would be for the 
sake of accomplishing good, by preventing Corona from 
falling into the trap — Corona, whom she hated ! Still, 
it would be a generous act to save her. The minds of 
women like Madame Mayer are apt to be a little tortu- 
ous when they find themselves hemmed in between their 
own jealousies, hatreds, and personal interests. 

“ If you refused — no ; if you refused, I am afraid I could 
not give you the papers,” replied Del Ferice, musing as he 
gazed at the fire. “I love you too much to lose that 
chance of winning you, even for the sake of saving the 
Duchessa d’Astrardente from her fate. Why do you re- 
fuse? why do you bargain?” he asked, suddenly turning 
towards her. “Does all my devotion count for nothing — 
all my love, all my years of patient waiting ? Oh, you can- 
not be so cruel as to snatch the cup from my very lips ! 
It is not for the sake of these miserable documents : what 
is it to me whether Don Giovanni appears as the criminal 
in a case of bigamy — whether he is ruined now, as by his 
evil deeds he will be hereafter, or whether he goes on un- 
harmed and unthwarted upon his career of wickedness ? 
He is nothing to me, nor his pale-faced bride either. It is 
for you that I care, for you that I will do anything, bad or 
good, to win you that I would risk my life and my soul. 


358 


SARACINESCA. 


Can you not see it ? Have I not been faithful for very 
long ? Take pity on me — forget this whole business, for- 
get that you have promised anything, forget all except 
that I am here at your feet, a miserable man, unless you 
speak the word, and turn all my wretchedness into joy !” 

He slipped from his seat and knelt upon one knee before 
her, clasping one of her hands passionately between both 
his own. The scene was well planned and well executed ; 
his voice had a ring of emotion that sounded pleasantly in 
Donna Tullia’s ears, and his hands trembled with excite- 
ment. She did not repulse him, being a vain woman and 
willing to believe in the reality of the passion so well simu- 
lated. Perhaps, too, it was not wholly put on, for she was 
a handsome, dashing woman, in the prime of youth, and 
Del Ferice was a man who had always been susceptible to 
charms of that kind. Donna Tullia hesitated, wondering 
what more he could say. But he, on his part, knew the 
danger of trusting too much to eloquence when not backed 
by a greater strength than his, and he pressed her for an 
answer. 

“Be generous — trust me,” he cried. “ Believe that your 
happiness is everything to me ; believe that I will take no 
unfair advantage of a hasty promise. Tell me that, of your 
own free will, you will be my wife, and command me any- 
thing, that I may prove my devotion. It is so true, so 
honest, — Tullia, I adore you, I live only for you ! Speak 
the word, and make me the happiest of men ! ” 

He really looked handsome as he knelt before her, and 
she felt the light, nervous pressure of his hand at every 
word he spoke. After all, what did it matter ? She might 
accept him, and then — well, if she did not like the idea, 
she could throw him over. It would only cost her a vio- 
lent Sbene, and a few moments of discomfort. Meanwhile 
she would get the papers. 

“ But you would give me the papers, would you not, and 

leave me to decide whether Really, Del Ferice,” she 

said, interrupting herself with a nervous laugh, “ this is 
very absurd.” 


SARACINESCA. 


359 


“ I implore you not to speak of the papers — it is not 
absurd. It may seem so to you, but it is life or death to 
me : death if you refuse me — life if you will speak the 
word and be mine ! 77 

Donna Tullia made up her mind. He would evidently 
not give her what she wanted, except in return for a 
promise of marriage. She had grown used to him, almost 
fond of him, in the last year. 

“ Well, I do not know whether I am right / 7 she said, 
“ but I am really very fond of you ; and if you will do all 
I say 77 

“ Everything, my dear lady ; everything in the world 
I will do, if you will make me so supremely happy , 77 cried 
Del Ferice, ardently. 

“Then — yes ; I will marry you. Only get up and sit 
upon your chair like a reasonable being. No; you really 
must be reasonable, or you must go away . 77 Ugo was 
madly kissing her hands. He was really a good actor, if 
it was all acting. She could not but be moved by his pale 
delicate face and passionate words. With a quick move- 
ment he sprang to his feet and stood before her, clasping 
his hands together and gazing into her face. 

“Oh, I am the happiest man alive to-day ! 77 he ex- 
claimed, and the sense of triumph that he felt lent en- 
ergy to his voice. 

“Do sit down , 77 said Donna Tullia, gaily, “and let us 
talk it all over. In the first place, what am I to do 
first ? 77 

Del Ferice found it convenient to let his excitement 
subside, and as a preliminary he walked twice the length 
of the room. 

“It is so hard to be calm ! 77 he exclaimed; but never- 
theless he presently sat down in his former seal, and 
seemed to collect his faculties with wonderful ease. 

“ What is to be done first ? 77 asked Donna Tullia again. 

“In the first place , 77 answered Del Ferice, “here are 
those precious papers. As they are notary’s copies them- 
selves, and not the originals, it is of no importance 


360 


SARACINESCA. 


whether Don Giovanni tears them up or not. It is easy 
to get others if he does. I have noted down all the 
names and dates. I wish we had some information about 
Delice Baldi. It is very unfortunate that we have not, 
but it would perhaps take a month to find her.” 

“ I must act at once,” said Donna Tullia, firmly ; for 
she remembered old Saracinesca’s threats, and was in a 
hurry. 

“ Of course. These documents speak for themselves. 
They bear the address of the notary who made the copies 
in Aquila. If the Saracinesca choose, they can them- 
selves go there and see the originals.” 

“ Could they not destroy those too ? ” asked Donna 
Tullia, nervously. 

“No; they can only see one at a time, and the person 
who will show them will watch them. Besides, it is 
easy to write to the curate of the church of San Bernar- 
dino to be on his guard. We will do that in any case. 
The matter is perfectly plain. Your best course is to 
meet the Astrardente to-morrow at the appointed time, 
and simply present these papers for inspection. No one 
can deny their authenticity, for they bear the Govern- 
ment stamp and the notary’s seal, as you see, here and 
here. If they ask you, as they certainly will, how you 
came by them, you can afford to answer, that, since you 
have them, it is not necessary to know whence they came ; 
that they may go and verify the originals ; and that in 
warning them of the fact, you have fulfilled a duty to so- 
ciety, and have done a service to the Astrardente, if not 
to Giovanni Saracinesca. You have them in your power, 
and you can afford to take the high hand in the matter. 
They must believe the evidence of their senses ; and they 
must either allow that Giovanni’s first wife is alive, or 
they must account for her death, and prove it. There is 
no denial possible in the face of these proofs.” 

Donna Tullia drew a long breath, for the case seemed 
perfectly clear; and the anticipation of her triumph 
already atoned for the sacrifice she had made. 


SARACINESCA. 


361 


“You are a wonderful man, Del Ferice ! ” she ex- 
claimed. “ I do not know whether I am wise in promis- 
ing to marry you, but I have the greatest admiration for 
your intellect.” 

Del Ferice glanced at her and smiled. Then he made 
as though he would return the papers to his pocket. She 
sprang towards him, and seized him by the wrist. 

“Do not be afraid!” she cried, “I will keep my 
promise.” 

“ Solemnly ? ” he asked, still smiling, and holding the 
envelope firmly in his hand. 

“Solemnly,” she answered; and then added, with a 
quick laugh, “ but you are so abominably clever, that I 
believe you could make me marry you against my will.” 

“ Never ! ” said Del Ferice, earnestly ; “ I love you far 
too much.” He had wonderfully clear instincts. “And 
now,” he continued, “we have settled that matter; 
when shall the happy day be ? ” 

“ Oh, there is time enough to think of that,” answered 
Donna Tullia, with a blush that might have passed for 
the result of a coy shyness, but which was in reality 
caused by a certain annoyance at being pressed. 

“No,” objected Del Ferice, “we must announce our en- 
gagement at once. There is no reason for delay — to-day 
is better than to-morrow.” 

“ To-day ? ” repeated Donna Tullia, in some alarm. 

“ Why not ? Why not, my dear lady, since you and 
I are both in earnest ? ” 

“ I think it would be much better to let this affair pass 
first.” 

“ On the contrary,” he argued, “ from the moment we 
are publicly engaged I become your natural protector. 
If any one offers you any insult in this matter, I shall 
then have an acknowledged right to avenge you — a right 
I dearly covet. Do you think I would dread to meet 
Don Giovanni again ? He wounded me, it is true, but 
he has the marks of my sword upon his body also. Give 
me at once the privilege of appearing as your champion, 


362 


SARACINESCA. 


and you will not regret it. But if you delay doing so, 
all sorts of circumstances may arise, all sorts of unpleas- 
antness — who could protect you? Of course, even in 
that case I would ; but you know the tongues of the gos- 
sips in Rome — it would do you harm instead of good.” 

“ That is true, and you are very brave and very kind. 
But it seems almost too soon,” objected Donna Tullia, 
w T ho, however, was fast learning to yield to his judg- 
ment. 

“ Those things cannot be done too soon. It gives us 
liberty, and it gives the world satisfaction ; it protects 
you, and it will be an inestimable pleasure to me. Why 
delay the inevitable ? Let us appear at once as engaged 
to be married, and you put a sword in my hand to de- 
fend you and to enforce your position in this unfortu- 
nate affair with the Astrardente.” 

“Well, you may announce it if you please,” she 
answered, reluctantly. 

“ Thank you, my dear lady,” said Del Ferice. “ And 
here are the papers. Make the best use of them you can 
— any use that you make of them will be good, I know. 
How could it be otherwise ? ” 

Donna Tullia’s fingers closed upon the large envelope 
with a grasping grip, as though she would never relin- 
quish that for which she had paid so dear a price. She 
had, indeed, at one time almost despaired of getting pos- 
session of them, and she had passed a terrible hour, be- 
sides having abased herself to the fruitless bribery she 
had practised upon Temistocle. But she had gained 
her end, even at the expense of permitting Del Ferice to 
publish her engagement to marry him. She felt that 
she could break it off if she decided at last that the union 
was too distasteful to her; but she foresaw that, from 
the point of worldly ambition, she would be no great 
loser by marrying a man of such cunning wit, who pos- 
sessed such weapons against his enemies, and who, on the 
whole, as she believed, entirely sympathised with her 
yiew of life. She recognised that her chances of making 


SARACINESCA. 


363 


a great match were diminishing rapidly ; she could not 
tell precisely why, hut she felt, to her mortification, that 
she had not made a good use of her rich widowhood : 
people did not respect her much, and as this touched her 
vanity, she was susceptible to their lack of deference. 
She had done no harm, but she knew that every one 
thought her an irresponsible woman, and the thrifty Ko- 
mans feared her extravagance, though some of them per- 
haps courted her fortune: many had admired her, and 
had to some extent expressed their devotion, but no scion 
of all the great families had asked her to be his wife. 
The nearest approach to a proposal had been the doubt- 
ful attention she had received from Giovanni Saracinesca 
during the time when his headstrong father had almost 
persuaded him to marry her, and she thought of her dis- 
appointed hopes with much bitterness. To destroy Gio- 
vanni by the revelations she now proposed to make, to 
marry Del Fence, and then to develop her position by 
means of the large fortune she had inherited from her 
first husband, seemed on the whole a wise plan. Del 
Fence’s title was not much, to be sure, but, on the other 
hand, he was intimate with every one she knew, and for 
a few thousand scudi she could buy some small estate 
with a good title attached to it. She would then change 
her mode of life, and assume the pose of a social power, 
which as a young widow she could not do. It was not 
so bad, after all, especially if she could celebrate the first 
day of her engagement by destroying the reputation of 
Giovanni Saracinesca, root and branch, and dealing a blow 
at Corona’s happiness from which it would not recover. 

As for Del Ferice, he regarded his triumph as complete. 
He cared little what became of Giovanni — whether he 
was able to refute the evidence brought against him or 
not. There had been nothing in the matter which was 
dishonest, and properly made out marriage-certificates 
are not easy things to annul. Giovanni might swim or 
sink — it was nothing to Ugo del Ferice, now that he had 
gained the great object of his life, and was at liberty to 


364 


SARACINESCA. 


publish his engagement to Donna Tullia Mayer. He 
lost no time in telling his friends the good news, and 
before the evening was over a hundred people had con- 
gratulated him. Donna Tullia, too, appeared in more 
than usually gay attire, and smilingly received the expres- 
sions of good wishes which were showered upon her. 
She was not inclined to question the sincerity of those 
who spoke, for in her present mood the stimulus of a 
little popular noise was soothing to her nerves, which 
had been badly strained by the excitement of the day. 
When she closed her eyes she had evil visions of Temis- 
tocle retreating at full speed down the stairs with his 
unearned bribe, or of Del Fence’s calm, pale face, as he 
had sat in her house that afternoon grasping the precious 
documents in his hand until she promised to pay the 
price he asked, which was herself. But she smiled at 
each new congratulation readily enough, and said in her 
heart that she would yet become a great power in society, 
and make her house the centre of all attractions. And 
meanwhile she pondered on the title she should buy for 
her husband: she came of high blood herself, and she 
knew how such dignities as a “ principe ” or a “ duca ” 
were regarded when bought. There was nothing for it 
but to find some snug little inarquisate — “ marchese ” 
sounded very well, though one could not be called “ eccel- 
lenza ” by one’s servants ; still, as the daughter of a 
prince, she might manage even that. “ Marchese” — yes, 
that would do. What a pity there were only four “ can- 
opy ” marquises — “ marchesi del baldacchino ” — in Borne 
with the rank of princes ! That was exactly the combi- 
nation of dignities Donna Tullia required for her husband. 
But once a “ marchese,” if she was very charitable, and 
did something in the way of a public work, the Holy 
Father might condescend to make Del Ferice a “ duca ” 
in the ordinary course as a step in the nobility. Donna 
Tullia dreamed many things that night, and she after- 
wards accomplished most of them, to the surprise of 
everybody, and, if the truth were told, to her own consid- 
erable astonishment. 


SAKACINESCA. 


365 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

“Giovanni, yon are the victim of some outrageous 
plot,” said old Saracinesca, entering his son’s room on the 
following morning. “ I have thought it all out in the 
night, and I am convinced of it.” 

Giovanni was extended upon a sofa, with a book in his 
hand and a cigar between his lips. He looked up quietly 
from his reading. 

“ I am not the victim yet, nor ever will be,” he an- 
swered ; “ but it is evident that there is something at the 
bottom of this besides Madame Mayer’s imagination. I 
will find out.” 

“What pleases me especially,” remarked the old Prince, 
“ is the wonderful originality of the idea. It would have 
been commonplace to make out that you had poisoned 
half-a-dozen wives, and buried their bodies in the vaults 
of Saracinesca; it would have been banal to say that 
you were not yourself, but some one else ; or to assert 
that you were a revolutionary agent in disguise, and that 
the real Giovanni had been murdered by you, who had 
taken his place without my discovering it, — very common- 
place all that. But to say that you actually have a living 
wife, and to try to prove it by documents, is an idea 
worthy of a great mind. It takes one’s breath away.” 

Giovanni laughed. 

“ It will end in our having to go to Aquila in search of 
my supposed better half,” he said. “Aquila, of all places ! 
If she had said Paris — or e.ven Florence — but why, in the 
name of geography, Aquila ? ” 

“She probably looked for some out-of-the-way place 
upon an alphabetical list,” laughed the Prince. “ Aquila 
stood first. We shall know in two hours — come along. 
It is time to be going.” 

They found Corona in her boudoir. She had passed an 
uneasy hour on the previous afternoon after they had left 


866 


SAEACINESCA. 


her, but her equanimity was now entirely restored. She 
had made up her mind that, however ingenious the con- 
cocted evidence might turn out to be, it was absolutely 
impossible to harm Giovanni by means of it. His position 
was beyond attack, as, in her mind, his character was above 
slander. Ear from experiencing any sensation of anxiety 
as to the result of Donna Tullia’s visit, what she most felt 
was curiosity to see what these fancied proofs would be 
like. She still believed that Madame Mayer was mad. 

“I have been remarking to Giovanni upon Donna 
Tullia’s originality,” said old Saracinesca. “ It is charm- 
ing ; it shows a talent for fiction which the world has been 
long in realising, which we have not even suspected — an 
amazing and transcendent genius for invention.” 

“ It is pure insanity,” answered Corona, in a tone of 
conviction. “ The woman is mad.” 

“Mad as an Englishman,” asseverated the Prince, using 
the most powerful simile in the Italian language. “ We 
will have her in Santo Spirito before night, and she will 
puzzle the doctors.” 

“ She is not mad,” said Giovanni, quietly. “ I do not 
even believe we shall find that her documents are forg- 
eries.” 

“ What ? ” cried his father. Corona looked quickly at 
Giovanni. 

“ You yourself,” said the latter, turning to old Saraci- 
nesca, “ were assuring me half an hour ago that I was the 
victim of a plot. Now, if anything of the kind is seriously 
attempted, you may be sure it will be well done. She h^s 
a good ally in the man to whom she is engaged. Del Ferice 
is no fool, and he hates me.” 

“ Del Ferice ! ” exclaimed Corona, in surprise. As she 
went nowhere as yet, she had, of course, not heard the 
news which had been published on the previous evening. 
“You do not mean to say that she is going to marry Del 
Ferice ? ” 

“ Yes, indeed,” said Giovanni. “ They both appeared 
last night and announced the fact, and received every- 
body’s congratulations. It is a most appropriate match,” 


SARACINESCA. 


367 


“I agree with you— a beautiful triangular alliteration 
of wit, wealth, and wickedness,” observed the Prince. 
“ He has brains, she has money, and they are both as bad 
as possible.” 

“ I thought you used to like Donna Tullia,” said Corona, 
suppressing a smile. 

“ I did,” said old Saracinesca, stoutly. “ I wanted Gio- 
vanni to marry her. It has pleased Providence to avert 
that awful catastrophe. I liked Madame Mayer because 
she was rich and noisy and good-looking, and I thought 
that, as Giovanni’s wife, she would make the house gay. 
We are such a pair of solemn bears together, that it seemed 
appropriate that somebody should make us dance. It was 
a foolish idea, I confess, though I thought it very beautiful 
at the time. It merely shows how liable we are to make 
mistakes. Imagine Giovanni married to a lunatic ! ” 

“I repeat that she is not mad,” said Giovanni. “I 
cannot tell how they have managed it, but I am sure it 
has been managed well, and will give us trouble. You 
will see.” 

“I do not understand at all how there can be any 
trouble about it,” said Corona, proudly. “ It is perfectly 
simple for us to tell the truth, and to show that what 
they say is a lie. You can prove easily enough that you 
were in Canada at the time. I wish it were time for her 
to come. Let us go to breakfast in the meanwhile.” 

The views taken by the three were characteristic of 
their various natures. The old Prince, who was violent 
of temper, and inclined always to despise an enemy in 
any shape, scoffed at the idea that there was anything to 
show ; and though his natural wit suggested from time 
to time that there was a plot against his son, his general 
opinion was, that it was a singular case of madness. He 
hardly believed Donna Tullia would appear at all ; and 
if she did, he expected some extraordinary outburst, 
some pitiable exhibition of insanity. Corona, on the 
other hand, maintained a proud indifference, scorning to 
suppose that anything could possibly injure Giovanni in 


m 


SARACINESCA. 


any way, loving him too entirely to admit that he was vul- 
nerable at all, still less that he could possibly have done 
anything to give colour to the accusation brought against 
him. Giovanni alone of all the three foresaw that there 
would be trouble, and dimly guessed how the thing had 
been done ; for he did not fall into his father’s error of 
despising an enemy, and he had seen too much of the 
world not to understand that danger is often greatest 
when the appearance of it is least. 

Breakfast was hardly over when Donna Tullia was an- 
nounced. All rose to meet her, and all looked at her 
with equal interest. She was calmer than on the previ- 
ous day, and she carried a package of papers in her hand. 
Her red lips were compressed, and her eyes looked defi- 
antly round upon all present. Whatever might be her 
faults, she was not a coward when brought face to face 
with danger. She was determined to carry the matter 
through, both because she knew that she had no other 
alternative, and because she believed herself to be doing 
a righteous act, which, at the same time, fully satisfied 
her desire for vengeance. She came forward boldly and 
stood beside the table in the midst of the room. Corona 
was upon one side of the fireplace, and the two Saraci- 
nesea upon the other. All three held their breath in 
expectation of what Donna Tullia was about to say ; the 
sense of her importance impressed her, and her love of 
dramatic situations being satisfied, she assumed some- 
thing of the air of a theatrical avenging angel, and her 
utterance was rhetorical. 

“ I come here,” she said, “ at your invitation, to exhibit 
to your eyes the evidence of what I yesterday asserted — 
the evidence of the monstrous crime of which I accuse 
that man.” Here she raised her finger with a gesture of 
scorn, and extending her whole arm, pointed towards 
Giovanni. 

“ Madam,” interrupted the old Prince, “ I will trouble 
you to select your epithets and expressions with more 
care. Pray be brief, and show what you have brought.” 


SARACINESCA. 


369 


“ I will show it, indeed,” replied Donna Tullia, “ and 
you shall tremble at what you see. When you have evi- 
dence of the truth of what I say, you may choose any 
language you please to define the action of your son. 
These documents,” she said, holding up the package, “ are 
attested copies made from the originals — the first two in 
the possession of the curate of the church of San Ber- 
nardino da Siena, at Aquila, the other in the office of the 
Stato Civile in the same city. As they are only copies, 
you need not think that you will gain anything by de- 
stroying them.” 

“ Spare your comments upon our probable conduct,” 
interrupted the Prince, roughly. Donna Tullia eyed him 
with a scornful glance, and her face began to grow red. 

“ You may destroy them if you please,” she repeated; 
“ but I advise you to observe that they bear the Govern- 
ment stamp and the notarial seal of Gianbattista Caldani, 
notary public in the city of Aquila, and that they are, 
consequently, beyond all doubt genuine copies of genuine 
documents.” 

Donna Tullia proceeded to open the envelope and with- 
draw the three papers it contained. Spreading them out, 
she took up the first, which contained the extract from 
the curate’s book of banns. It set forth that upon the 
three Sundays preceding the 19th of June 1863, the said 
curate had published, in the parish church of San Ber- 
nardino da Siena, the banns of marriage between Gio- 
vanni Saracinesca and Felice Baldi. Donna Tullia read 
it aloud. 

Giovanni could hardly suppress a laugh, it sounded so 
strangely. Corona herself turned pale, though she 
firmly believed the whole thing to be an imposture of 
some kind. 

“ Permit me, madam,” said old Saracinesca, stepping 
forward and taking the paper from her hand. He care- 
fully examined the seal and stamp. “ It is very cleverly 
done,” he said with a sneer ; “ but there should be only 
one letter r in the name Saracinesca — here it is spelt with 

x 


3T0 


SARACINESCA. 


two ! Very clever, but a slight mistake ! Observe,” he 
said, showing the place to Donna Tullia. 

“It is a mistake of the copyist,” she said, scornfully. 
“The name is properly spelt in the other papers. Here 
is the copy of the marriage register. Shall I read it 
also ? ” 

“Spare me the humiliation,” said Giovanni, in quiet 
contempt. “ Spare me the unutterable mortification of 
discovering that there is another Giovanni Saracinesca 
in the world ! ” 

“I could not have believed that any one could be so 
hardened,” said Donna Tullia. “But whether you are 
humiliated or not by the evidence of your misdeeds, I 
will spare you nothing. Here it is in full, and you may 
notice that your name is spelt properly too.” 

She held up the document and then read it out — the 
copy of the curate’s register, stating that on the 19th of 
June 1863 Giovanni Saracinesca and Felice Baldi were 
united in holy matrimony in the church of San Bernar- 
dino da Siena. She handed the paper to the Prince, and 
then read the extract from the register of the Civil mar- 
riage and the notary’s attestation to the signatures. She 
gave this also to old Saracinesca, and then folding her 
arms in a fine attitude, confronted the three. 

“ Are you satisfied that I spoke the truth ? ” she asked, 
defiantly. 

“The thing is certainly remarkably well done,” an- 
swered the old Prince, who scrutinised the papers with 
a puzzled air. Though he knew perfectly well that his 
son had been in Canada at the time of this pretended 
marriage, he- confessed to himself that if such evidence 
had been brought against any other man, he would have 
believed it. 

“ It is a shameful fraud ! ” exclaimed Corona, looking 
at the papers over the old man’s shoulder. 

“ That is a lie ! ” cried Donna Tullia, growing scarlet 
with anger. 

“Do not forget your manners, or you will get into 


SAKACINESCA. 


371 


trouble/’ said Giovanni, sternly. “I see through the 
whole thing. There has been no fraud, and yet the de- 
ductions are entirely untrue. In the first place, Donna 
Tullia, how do you make the statements here given to 
coincide with the fact that during the whole summer of 
1863 and during the early part of 1864 I was in Canada 
with a party of gentlemen, who are all alive to testify 
to the fact ? ” 

“I do not believe it,” answered Madame Mayer, con- 
temptuously. “ I would not believe your friends if they 
were here and swore to it. You will very likely produce 
witnesses to prove that you were in the arctic regions 
last summer, as the newspapers said, whereas every one 
knows now that you were at Saracinesca. You are ex- 
ceedingly clever at concealing your movements, as we all 
know.” 

Giovanni did not lose his temper, but calmly proceeded 
to demonstrate his theory. 

“You will find that the courts of law will accept the 
evidence of gentlemen upon oath,” he replied, quietly. 
“ Moreover, as a further evidence, and a piece of very 
singular proof, I can probably produce Giovanni Sara- 
cinesca and Felice Baldi themselves to witness against you. 
And I apprehend that the said Giovanni Saracinesca will 
vehemently protest that the said Felice Baldi is his wife, 
and not mine.” 

“You speak in wonderful riddles, but you will not de- 
ceive me. Money will doubtless do much, but it will not 
do what you expect.” 

“ Certainly not,” returned Giovanni, unmoved by her 
reply. “ Money will certainly not create out of nothing a 
second Giovanni Saracinesca, nor his circle of acquaint- 
ances, nor the police registers concerning him which are 
kept throughout the kingdom of Italy, very much as they 
are kept here in the Pontifical States. Money will do 
none of these things.” 

While he was speaking, his father and the Duchessa 
listened with intense interest. 


372 


SARACINESCA. 


“ Donna Tullia,” continued Giovanni, “I am willing to 
believe from your manner that you are really sure that I 
am the man mentioned in your papers ; but permit me to 
inform you that you have been made the victim of a shal- 
low trick, probably by the person who gave those same 
papers into your hands, and suggested to you the use you 
have made of them.” 

“ I ? I, the victim of a trick ? ” repeated Donna Tullia, 
frightened at last by his obstinately calm mannner. 

“Yes,” he replied. “I know Aquila and the Abruzzi 
very well. It chances that although we, the Saracinesca 
of Rome, are not numerous, the name is not uncommon in 
that part of the country. It is the same with all our 
great names. There are Colonna, Orsini, Caetani all over 
the country — there are even many families bearing the 
name of the Medici, who are extinct. You know it as 
well as I, or you should know it, for I believe your mother 
was my father’s cousin. Has it not struck you that this 
same Giovanni Saracinesca herein mentioned, is simply 
some low-born namesake of mine ? ” 

Donna Tullia had grown very pale, and she leaned upon 
the table as though she were faint. The others listened 
breathlessly. 

“ I do not believe it,” said Madame Mayer, in a low and 
broken voice. 

“Now I will tell you what I will do,” continued Gio- 
vanni. “ I will go to Aquila at once, and I daresay my 
father will accompany me ” 

“ Of course I will,” broke in the old Prince. 

“We will go, and in a fortnight’s time we will produce 
the whole history of this Giovanni Saracinesca, together 
with his wife and himself in his own person, if they are 
both alive ; we will bring them here, and they will assure 
you that you have been egregiously deceived, played upon 
and put in a false position by — by the person who furnished 
you with these documents. I wonder that any Roman of 
common-sense should not have seen at once the cause of 
this mistake.” 


SARACINESCA. 


878 


“ I cannot believe it,” murmured Donna Tullia. Then 
raising her voice, she added, “ Whatever may be the re- 
sult of your inquiry, I cannot but feel that I have done my 
duty in this affair. I do not believe in your theory, nor 
in you, and I shall not, until you produce this other man. 
I have done my duty ” 

“An exceedingly painful one, no doubt,” remarked old 
Saracinesca. Then he broke into a loud peal of laughter. 

“ And if you do not succeed in your search, it will be 
my duty, in the interests of society, to put the matter in 
the hands of the police. Since you have the effrontery 
to say that those papers are of no use, I demand them 
back.” 

“ Not at all, madam,” replied the Prince, whose laughter 
subsided at the renewed boldness of her tone. “ I will 
not give them back to you. I intend to compare them 
with the originals. If there are no originals, they will 
serve very well to commit the notary whose seal is on 
them, and yourself, upon a well-founded indictment for 
forgery, wilful calumniation, and a whole list of crimes 
sufficient to send you to the galleys for life. If, on the 
other hand, the originals exist, they can be of no possible 
value to you, as you can send to Aquila and have fresh 
copies made whenever you please, as you yourself in- 
formed me.” 

Things were taking a bad turn for Donna Tullia. She 
believed the papers to be genuine, but a fearful doubt 
crossed her mind that Del Ferice might possibly have 
deceived her by having them manufactured. Anybody 
could buy Government paper, and it would be but a sim- 
ple matter to have a notary’s seal engraved. She was 
terrified at the idea, but there was no possibility of get- 
ting the documents back from the old Prince, who held 
them firmly in his broad brown hand. There was nothing 
to be done but to face the situation out to the end and go. 

“As you please,” she said. “It is natural that you 
should insult me, a defenceless woman trying to do what 
is right. It is worthy of your race and reputation. I will 


374 


SARACINESCA. 


leave you to the consideration of the course you intend to 
follow, and I advise you to omit nothing which can help 
to prove the innocence of your son.” 

Donna Tullia bestowed one more glance of contemp- 
tuous defiance upon the group, and brushed angrily out 
of the room. 

“ So much for her madness ! ” exclaimed Giovanni, when 
she was gone. “ I think I have got to the bottom of that 
affair.” 

“ It seems so simple, and yet I never thought of it,” said 
Corona. “ How clever you are, Giovanni ! ” 

“ There was not much cleverness needed to see through 
so shallow a trick,” replied Giovanni. “ I suspected it this 
morning; and when I saw that the documents were genuine 
and all in order, I was convinced of it. This thing has 
been done by Del Ferice, I suppose in order to revenge 
himself upon me for nearly killing him in fair fight. It 
was a noble plan. With a little more intelligence and a 
little more pains, he could have given me great trouble. 
Certificates like those he produced, if they had come from 
a remote French village in Canada, would have given us 
occupation for some time.” 

“ I wish Donna Tullia joy of her husband,” remarked 
the Prince. “ He will spend her money in a year or two, 
and then leave her to the contemplation of his past extrav- 
agance. I wonder how he induced her to consent.” 

“Many people like Del Ferice,” said Giovanni. “He 
is popular, and has attractions.” 

“ How can you say that ! ” exclaimed Corona, indig- 
nantly. “You should have a better opinion of women 
than to think any woman could find attractions in such a 
man.” 

“ Nevertheless, Donna Tullia is going to marry him,” 
returned Giovanni. “ She must find him to her taste. I 
used to think she might have married Valdarno — he is so 
good-natured you know ! ” 

Giovanni spoke in a tone of reflection ; the other two 
laughed. 


SARACINESCA. 375 

“ And now, Giovannino,” said his father, “ we must set 
out for Aquila, and find your namesake.” 

“ You will not really go ? ” asked Corona, with a look of 
disappointment. She could not bear the thought of being 
separated even for a day from the man she loved. 

“ I do not see that we can do anything else,” returned 
the Prince. “ I must satisfy myself whether those papers 
are forgeries or not. If they are, that woman must go to 
prison for them.” 

“But she is our cousin — you cannot do that,” objected 
Giovanni. 

“ Indeed I will. I am angry. Do not try to stop me. 
Do you suppose I care anything for the relationship in 
comparison with repaying her for all this trouble ? You 
are not going to turn merciful, Giovanni ? I should not 
recognise you.” 

There was a sort of mournful reproach about the old 
Prince’s tone, as though he were reproving his son for 
having fallen from the paths of virtue. Corona laughed; 
she was not hard-hearted, but she was not so angelic of 
nature as to be beyond feeling deep and lasting resent- 
ment for injuries received. At that moment the idea of 
bringing Donna Tullia to justice was pleasant. 

“Well,” said Giovanni, “no human being can boast of 
having ever prevented you from doing whatever you were 
determined to do. The best thing that can happen will be, 
that you should find the papers genuine, and my namesake 
alive. I wish Aquila were Florence or Naples,” he added, 
turning to Corona; “you might manage to go at the same 
time.” 

“ That is impossible,” she answered, sadly. “ How long 
will you be gone, do you think ? ” 

Giovanni did not believe that, if the papers were genu- 
ine, and if they had to search for the man mentioned in 
them, they could return in less than a fortnight. 

“Why not send a detective — a sbirro ?” suggested 
Corona. 

“ He could not accomplish anything,” replied the Prince. 


376 


SARACINESCA. 


“ He would be at a great disadvantage there ; we must go 
ourselves.” 

“Both?” asked Corona, regretfully, gazing at Gio- 
vanni’s face. 

“ It is my business,” replied the latter. “ I can hardly 
ask my father to go alone.” 

“ Absurd ! ” exclaimed the old Prince, resenting the idea 
that he needed any help to accomplish his mission. “Do 
you think I need some one to take care of me, like a baby 
in arms ? I will go alone ; you shall not come even if you 
wish it. Absurd, to talk of my needing anybody with 
me ! I will show you what your father can do when his 
blood is up.” 

Protestations were useless after that. The old man 
grew angry at the opposition, and, regardless of all pro- 
priety, seized his hat and left the room, growling that he 
was as good as anybody, and a great deal better. 

Corona and Giovanni looked at each other when he 
was gone, and smiled. 

“ I believe my father is the best man alive,” said Gio- 
vanni. “ He would go in a moment if I would let him. 
I will go after him and bring him back — I suppose I 
ought.” 

“ I suppose so,” answered Corona ; but as they stood 
side by side, she passed her hand under his arm affec- 
tionately, and looked into his eyes. It was a very tender 
look, very loving and gentle — such a look as none but 
Giovanni had ever seen upon her face. He put his arm 
about her waist and drew her to him, and kissed her dark 
cheek. 

“ I cannot bear to go away and leave you, even for a 
day,” he said, pressing her to his side. 

“ Why should you ? ” she murmured, looking up to 
him. “Why should he go, after all? This has been 
such a silly affair. I wonder if that woman thought that 
anything could ever come between you and me ? That 
was what made me think she was really mad.” 

“And an excellent reason,” he answered. “Anybody 


SARACINESCA. 877 

must be insane who dreams of parting us two. It seems 
as though a year ago I had not loved you at all.” 

“ I am so glad,” said Corona. “ Do you remember, last 
summer, on the tower at Saracinesca, I told you that you 
did not know what love was ? ” 

“ It was true, Corona — I did not know. But I thought 
I did. I never imagined what the happiness of love was, 
nor how great it was, nor how it could enter into every 
thought.” 

“Into every thought ? Into your great thoughts too ? ” 

“ If any thoughts of mine are great, they are so because 
you are the mainspring of them,” he answered. 

“Will it always be so?” she asked. “You will be a 
very great man some day, Giovanni ; will you always feel 
that I am something to you ? ” 

“ Always — more than anything to me, more than all of 
me together.” 

“I sometimes wonder,” said Corona. “I think I under- 
stand you better than I used to do. I like to think that 
you feel how I understand you when you tell me any- 
thing. Of course I am not clever like you, but I love 
you so much that just while you are talking I seem to 
understand everything. It is like a flash of light in a 
dark room.” 

Giovanni kissed her again. 

“ What makes you think that I shall be great, Corona ? 
Nobody ever thinks I am even clever. My father would 
laugh at you, and say it is quite enough greatness to be 
born a Saracinesca. What makes you think it ? ” 

Corona stood up beside him and laid her delicate hand 
upon his thick, close-cut black hair, and gazed into his 
eyes. 

“ I know it,” she said. “ I know it, because I love you 
so. A man like you must be great. There is something 
in you that nobody guesses but I, that will amaze people 
some day — I know it.” 

“ I wonder if you could tell me what it is ? I wonder 
if it is really there at all ? ” said Giovanni. 


378 


SARACINESCA. 


“ It is ambition / 7 said Corona, gravely. “ You are the 
most ambitious man I ever knew, and nobody has found 
it out .’ 7 

“I believe it is true, Corona , 77 said Giovanni, turning 
away and leaning upon the chimneypiece, his head sup- 
ported on one hand. “ I believe you are right. I am 
ambitious : if I only had the brains that some men have 
I would do great things . 77 

“You are wrong, Giovanni. It is neither brains nor 
ambition nor strength that you lack — it is opportunity . 77 

“ They say that a man who has anything in him creates 
opportunities for himself , 77 answered Giovanni, rather 
sadly. “ I fear it is because I really have nothing in me 
that I can do nothing. It sometimes makes me very 
unhappy to think so. I suppose that is because my 
vanity is wounded . 77 

“Do not talk like that , 77 said Corona. “You have 
vanity, of course, but it is of the large kind, and I call it 
ambition. It is not only because I love you better than 
any man was ever loved before that I say that. It is that 
I know it instinctively. I have heard you say that these 
are unsettled times. Wait; your opportunity will come, 
as it came often to your forefathers in other centuries . 77 

“ I hardly think that their example is a good one , 77 
replied Giovanni, with a smile. 

“ They generally did something remarkable in remark- 
able times , 77 said Corona. “You will do the same. Your 
father, for instance, would not . 77 

“He is far more clever than I , 77 objected Giovanni. 

“Clever! It passes for cleverness. He is quick, active, 
a good talker, a man with a ready wit and a sharp answer 
— kind-hearted when the fancy takes him, cruel when he 
is so disposed — but not a man of great convictions or of 
great actions. You are very different from him . 77 

“Will you draw my portrait, Corona ? 77 asked Giovanni. 

“ As far as I know you. You are a man quick to think 
and slow to make a decision. You are not brilliant in 
conversation — you see I do not flatter you; I am just. 


SARACINESCA. 


379 


You have the very remarkable quality of growing cold 
when others grow hot, and of keeping the full use of 
your faculties in any situation. When you have made a 
decision, you cannot be moved from it ; but you are open 
to conviction in argument. You have a great repose of 
manner, which conceals a very restless brain. All your 
passions are very strong. You never forgive, never forget, 
and scarcely ever repent. Beneath all, you have an un- 
tamable ambition which has not yet found its proper field. 
Those are your qualities — and I love them all, and you 
more than them all.” 

Corona finished her speech by throwing her arms round 
his neck, and breaking into a happy laugh as she buried 
her face upon his shoulder. No one who saw her in the 
world would have believed her capable of those sudden and 
violent demonstrations — she was thought so very cold. 

When Giovanni reached home, he was informed that his 
father had left Borne an hour earlier by the train for 
Terni, leaving word that he had gone to Aquila. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

In those days the railroad did not extend beyond Terni 
in the direction of Aquila, and it was necessary to per- 
form the journey of forty miles between those towns by 
diligence. It was late in the afternoon of the next day 
before the cumbrous coach rolled up to the door of the 
Locanda del Sole in Aquila, and Prince Saracinesca 
found himself at his destination. The red evening sun 
gilded the snow of the Gran Sasso d’ltalia, the huge 
domed mountain that towers above the city of Frederick. 
The city itself had long been in the shade, and the spring 
air was sharp and biting. Saracinesca deposited his 
slender luggage with the portly landlord, said he would 
return for supper in half an hour, and inquired the way 


880 


SARACTNESCA. 


to the church of San Bernardino da Siena. There was 
no difficulty in finding it, at the end of the Corso — the 
inevitable “ Corso ” of every Italian town. The old 
gentleman walked briskly along the broad, clean street, 
and reached the door of the church just as the sacristan 
was hoisting the heavy leathern curtain, preparatory to 
locking up for the night. 

“ Where can I find the Padre Curato ? ” inquired the 
Prince. The man looked at him but made no answer, and 
proceeded to close the doors with great care. He. was an 
old man in a shabby cassock, with four days’ beard on 
his face, and he appeared to have taken snuff recently. 

“ Where is the Curator ? ” repeated the Prince, pluck- 
ing him by the sleeve. But the man shook his head, and 
began turning the ponderous key in the lock. Two little 
ragged boys were playing a game upon the church steps, 
piling five chestnuts in a heap and then knocking them 
down with a small stone. One of them having upset the 
heap, desisted and came near the Prince. 

“ That one is deaf,” he said, pointing to the sacristan. 
Then running behind him he stood on tiptoe and screamed 
in his ear — “ Brutta bestia ! ” 

The sacristan did not hear, but caught sight of the urchin 
and made a lunge at him. He missed him, however, and 
nearly fell over. 

“ What education ! — die educazione /” cried the old man, 
angrily. 

Meanwhile the little boy took refuge behind Saracinesca, 
and pulling his coat asked forasoZdo. The sacristan calmly 
withdrew the key from the lock, and went away without 
vouchsafing a look to the Prince. 

“ He is deaf,” screamed the little boy, who was now 
joined by his companion, and both in great excitement 
danced round the fine gentleman. 

“ Give me a soldo,” they yelled together. 

“ Show me the house of the Padre Curato,” answered 
the Prince, “ then I will give you each a soldo. Lesti ! 
Quick ! ” 


SARACINESCA. 


381 


Whereupon both the boys began turning cart-wheels on 
their feet and hands with marvellous dexterity. At last 
they subsided into a natural position, and led the way to 
the curate’s house, not twenty yards from the church, in a 
narrow alley. The Prince pulled the bell by the long chain 
which hung beside the open street door, and gave the boys 
the promised coppers. They did not leave him, however, 
but stood by to see what would happen. An old woman 
looked out of an upper window, and after surveying the 
Prince with care, called down to him — 

“ What do you want ? ” 

“ Is the Padre Curato at home ? ” 

“ Of course he is at home,” screamed the old woman. 
“ At this hour ! ” she added, contemptuously. 

“ Ebbene — can I see him ? ” 

“ What ! is the door shut ? ” returned the hag. 

“ No.” 

“ Then why don’t you come up without asking ? ” The 
old woman’s head disappeared, and the window was shut 
with a clattering noise. 

“She is a woman without education,” remarked one 
of the ragged boys, making a face towards the closed 
window. 

The Prince entered the door and stumbled up the dark 
stairs, and after some further palaver obtained admittance 
to the curate’s lodging. The curate sat in a room which 
appeared to serve as dining-room, living-room, and study. 
A small table was spread with a clean cloth, upon which 
were arranged a plate, a loaf of bread, a battered spoon, a 
knife, and a small measure of thin-looking wine. A brass 
lamp with three wicks, one of which only was burning, 
shed a feeble light through the poor apartment. Against 
the wall stood a rough table with an inkstand and three or 
four mouldy books. Above this hung a little black cross 
bearing a brass Christ, and above this again a coloured 
print of San Bernardino of Siena. The walls were white- 
washed, and perfectly clean, — as indeed was everything 
else in the room, — and there was a sweet smell of flowers 


382 


SARACINESCA. 


from a huge pot of pinks which had been taken in for 
the night, and stood upon the stone sill within the closed 
window. 

The curate was a tall old man, with a singularly gentle 
face and soft brown eyes. He wore a threadbare cassock, 
carefully brushed ; and from beneath his three-cornered 
black cap his thin hair hung in a straight grey fringe. 
As the Prince entered the room, the old woman called 
over his shoulder to the priest an uncertain formula of 
introduction. 

“ Don Paolo, c’£ uno — there is one.” Then she retired, 
grumbling audibly. 

The priest removed his cap, and bowing politely, offered 
one of the two chairs to his visitor. With an apology, he 
replaced his cap upon his head, and seated himself opposite 
the Prince. There was much courteous simplicity in his 
manner. 

“ In what way can I serve you, Signore ? ” he asked. 

“ These papers,” answered the Prince, drawing the fam- 
ous envelope from his breast-pocket, “are copies of certain 
documents in your keeping, relating to the supposed mar- 
riage of one Giovanni Saracinesca. With your very kind 
permission, I desire to see the originals.” 

The*old curate bowed, as though giving his assent, and 
looked steadily at his visitor for a moment before he 
answered. 

“There is nothing simpler, my good sir. You will 
pardon me, however, if I venture to inquire your name, 
and to ask you for what purpose you desire to consult 
the documents ? ” 

“ I am Leone Saracinesca of Rome ” 

The priest started uneasily. 

“ A relation of Giovanni Saracinesca ? ” he inquired. 
Then he added immediately, “Will you kindly excuse 
me for one moment ? ” and left the room abruptly. The 
Prince was considerably astonished, but he held his papers 
firmly in his hand, and did not move from his seat. The 
curate returned in a few seconds, bringing with him a 


SARACINESCA. 


383 


little painted porcelain basket, much chipped and the 
worse for age, and which contained a collection of visit- 
ing-cards. There were not more than a score of them, 
turning brown with accumulated dust. The priest found 
one which was rather newer than the rest, and after care- 
fully adjusting a pair of huge spectacles upon his nose, 
he went over to the lamp and examined it. 

“‘II Conte del Fence/” he read slowly. “Do you 
happen to know that gentleman, my good sir ? ” he in- 
quired, turning to the Prince, and looking keenly at him 
over his glasses. 

“ Certainly,” answered Saracinesca, beginning to under- 
stand the situation. “ I know him very well.” 

“ Ah, that is good ! ” said the priest. “ He was here 
two years ago, and had those same entries concerning 
Giovanni Saracinesca copied. Probably — certainly, in- 
deed — the papers you have there are the very ones he 
took away with him. When he came to see me about it, 
he gave me this card.” 

“ I wonder he did,” answered Saracinesca. 

“ Indeed,” replied the curate, after a moment’s thought, 
“ I remember that he came the next day — yes — and asked 
to have his card returned. But I could not find it for 
him. There was a hole in one of my pockets — it had 
slipped down. Carmela, my old servant, found it a day 
or two later in the lining of my cassock. I thought it 
strange that he should have asked for it.” 

“It was very natural. He wished you to forget his 
existence.” 

“ He asked me many questions about Giovanni,” said 
the priest, “but I could not answer him at that time.” 

“ You could answer now ? ” inquired the Prince, eagerly. 

“Excuse me, my good sir; what relation are you to 
Giovanni ? You say you are from Borne ? ” 

“Let us understand each other, Signor Curato,” said 
Saracinesca. “ I see I had better explain the position. I 
am Leone Saracinesca, the prince of that name, and the 
head of the family.” The priest bowed respectfully at 


384 


SAEACINESCA. 


this intelligence. “ My only son lives with me in Rome 
— he is now there — and his name is Giovanni Saracinesca. 
He is engaged to be married. When the engagement 
became known, an enemy of the family attempted to 
prove, by means of these papers, that he was married 
already to a certain Felice Baldi. How I wish to know 
who this Giovanni Saracinesca is, where he is, and how 
he comes to have my son’s name. I wish a certificate or 
some proof that he is not my son, — that he is alive, or 
that he is dead and buried.” 

The old priest burst into a genial laugh, and rubbed 
his hands together in delight. 

“ My dear sir — your Excellency, . I mean — I baptised 
Felice Baldi’s second baby a fortnight ago ! There is 
nothing simpler ” 

“I knew it!” cried the Prince, springing from his 
chair in great excitement ; “ I knew it ! Where is that 
baby ? Send and get the baby at once — the mother — the 
father — everybody ! ” 

“Subito! At once — or come with me. I will show 
you the whole family together,” said the curate, in inno- 
cent delight. “ Splendid children they are, too. Carmela, 
my cloak — sbrigati, be quick ! ” 

“One moment,” objected Saracinesca, as though sud- 
denly recollecting something. “ One moment, Signor 
Curato ; who goes slowly goes safely. Where does this 
man come from, and how does he come by his name ? I 
would like to know something about him before I see him.” 

“True,” answered the priest, resuming his seat. “I 
had forgotten. Well, it is not a long story. Giovanni 
Saracinesca is from Naples. You know there was once 
a branch of your family in the Neapolitan kingdom — at 
least so Giovanni says, and he is an honest fellow. Their 
title was Marchese di San Giacinto; and if Giovanni 
liked to claim it, he has a right to the title still.” 

“ But those Saracinesca were extinct fifty years ago,” 
objected the Prince, who knew his family history very 
well. 


SARACINESCA. 


385 


“ Giovanni says they were not. They were believed 
to be. The last Marchese di San Giacinto fought under 
Napoleon. He lost all he possessed — lands, money, every- 
thing — by confiscation, when Ferdinand was restored in 
1815. He was a rough man ; he dropped his title, mar- 
ried a peasant’s only daughter, became a peasant himself, 
and died obscurely in a village near Salerno. He left a 
son who worked on the farm and inherited it from his 
mother, married a woman of the village of some educa- 
tion, and died of the cholera, leaving his son, the present 
Giovanni Saracinesca. This Giovanni received a better 
education than his father had before him, improved his 
farm, began to sell wine and oil for exportation, travelled 
as far as Aquila, and met Felice Baldi, the daughter of a 
man of some wealth, who has since established an inn 
here. Giovanni loved her. I married them. He went 
back to Naples', sold his farm for a good price last year, 
and returned to Aquila. He manages his father-in-law’s 
inn, which is the second largest here, and drives a good 
business, having put his own capital into the enterprise. 
They have two children, the second one of which was 
born three weeks ago, and they are perfectly happy.” 

Saracinesca looked thoughtfully at Don Paolo, the old 
curate. 

“ Has this man any papers to prove the truth of this 
very singular story ? ” he inquired at last. 

“ Altro ! That was all his grandfather left — a heap of 
parchments. They seem to be in order — he showed them 
to me when I married him.” 

“ Why does he make no claim to have the attainder of 
his grandfather reversed ? ” 

The curate shrugged his shoulders and spread out the 
palms of his hands, smiling incredulously. 

“The lands, he says, have fallen into the hands of cer- 
tain patriots. There is no chance of getting them back. 
It is of little use to be a Marchese without property. 
What he possesses is a modest competence ; it is wealth, 
even, in his present position. For a nobleman it would 

Y 


386 


S A R ACIHESC A. 


be nothing. Besides, he is half a peasant by blood and 
tradition.” 

“ He is not the only nobleman in that position,” laughed 
Saracinesca. “ But are you aware ” 

He stopped short. He was going to say that if he 
himself and his son both died, the innkeeper of Aquila 
would become Prince Saracinesca. The idea shocked 
him, and he kept it to himself. 

“ After all,” he continued, “ the man is of my blood by 
direct descent. I would like to see him.” 

“ Nothing easier. If you will come with me, I will 
present him to your Excellency,” said the priest. “ Do 
you still wish to see the documents ? ” 

“It is useless. The mystery is solved. Let us go and 
see this new-found relation of mine.” 

Don Paolo wrapped his cloak around him, and ushering 
his guest from the room, led the way down-stairs. He 
carried a bit of wax taper, which he held low to the steps, 
frequently stopping and warning the Prince to be care- 
ful. It was night when they went out. The air was 
sharp and cold, and Saracinesca buttoned his greatcoat to 
his throat as he strode by the side of the old priest. The 
two walked on in silence for ten minutes, keeping straight 
down the Corso Vittorio Emmanuele. At last the curate 
stopped before a clean, new house, from the windows of 
which the bright light streamed into the street. Don 
Paolo motioned to the Prince to enter, and followed him 
in. A man in a white apron, with his arms full of plates, 
who was probably servant, butler, boots, and factotum to 
the establishment, came out of the dining-room, which 
was to the left of the entrance, and which, to judge by 
the noise, seemed to be full of people. He looked at the 
curate, and then at the Prince. 

“Sorry to disappoint you, Don Paolo m/o,” he said, 
supposing the priest had brought a customer — “very 
sorry ; there is not a bed in the house.” 

“That is no matter, Giacchino,” answered the curate. 
“We want to see Sor Giovanni for a moment.” The man 


SARACINESCA. 387 

disappeared, and a moment later Sor Giovanni himself 
came down the passage. 

“ Favorisca , dear Don Paolo, come in.” And he bowed 
to the Prince as he opened the door which led into a 
small sitting-room reserved for the innkeeper’s family. 

When they had entered, Saracinesca looked at his son’s 
namesake. He saw before him a man whose face and 
figure he long remembered with an instinctive dislike. Gio- 
vanni the innkeeper was of a powerful build. Two gener- 
ations of peasant blood had given renewed strength to the 
old race. He w T as large, with large bones, vast breadth of 
shoulder, and massive joints; lean withal, and brown of 
face, his high cheek-bones making his cheeks look hollow ; 
clean shaved, his hair straight and black and neatly 
combed; piercing black eyes near together, the heavy 
eyebrows joining together in the midst of his forehead; 
thin and cruel lips, now parted in a smile and showing a 
formidable set of short, white, even teeth ; a prominent 
square jaw, and a broad, strong nose, rather unnaturally 
pointed, — altogether a striking face, one that would be 
noticed in a crowd for its strength, but strangely cun- 
ning in expression, and not without ferocity. Years 
afterwards Saracinesca remembered his first meeting 
with Giovanni the innkeeper, and did not wonder that 
his first impulse had been to dislike the man. At pres- 
ent, however, he looked at him with considerable curi- 
osity, and if he disliked him at first sight, he told himself 
that it was beneath him to show antipathy for an inn- 
keeper. 

“Sor Giovanni,” said the curate, “this gentleman is 
desirous of making your acquaintance.” 

Giovanni, whose manners were above his station, bowed 
politely, and looked inquiringly at his visitor. 

“ Signor Saracinesca,” said the Prince, “ I am Leone 
Saracinesca of Pome. I have just heard of your existence. 
We have long believed your family to be extinct — I am 
delighted to find it still represented, and by one who seems 
likely to perpetuate the name.” 


388 


SARACINESCA. 


The innkeeper fixed his piercing eyes on the speaker’s 
face, and looked long before he answered. 

“ So you are Prince Saracinesca,” he said, gravely. 

“ And you are the Marchese di San Giacinto,” said the 
Prince, in the same tone, holding out his hand frankly. 

“ Pardon me, — lam Giovanni Saracinesca, the innkeeper 
of Aquila,” returned the other. But he took the Prince’s 
hand. Then they all sat down. 

“ As you please,” said the Prince. “ The title is none 
the less yours. If you had signed yourself with it when 
you married, you would have saved me a vast deal of 
trouble ; but on the other hand, I should not have been 
so fortunate as to meet you.” 

“ I do not understand,” said Giovanni. 

The Prince told his story in as few words as possible. 

“ Amazing ! extraordinary ! what a chance ! ” ejaculated 
the curate, nodding his old head from time to time while 
the Prince spoke, as though he had not heard it all before. 
The innkeeper said nothing until old Saracinesca had 
finished. 

“ I see how it was managed,” he said at last. “ When 
that gentleman was making inquiries, I was away. I had 
taken my wife back to Salerno, and my wife’s father had 
not yet established himself in Aquila. Signor Del — what 
is his name ?” 

“ Del Perice.” 

“Del Ferice, exactly. He thought we had disap- 
peared, and were not likely to come back. Or else he 
is a fool.” 

“ He is not a fool,” said Saracinesca. “ He thought he 
was safe. It is all very clear now. Well, Signor Marchese, 
or Signor Saracinesca, I am very glad to have made your 
acquaintance. You have cleared up a very important ques- 
tion by returning to Aquila. It will always give me the 
greatest pleasure to serve you in any way I can.” 

“ A thousand thanks. Anything I can do for you dur- 
ing your stay ” 

“ You are very kind. I will hire horses and return to 


SARACINESCA. 389 

Terni to-night. My business in Rome is urgent. There 
is some suspense there in my absence.” 

“ You will clrink a glass before going ? ” asked Gio- 
vanni ; and without waiting for an answer, he strode from 
the room. 

“ And what does your Excellency think of your rela- 
tion ? ” asked the curate, when he was alone with the 
Prince. 

“A terrible -looking fellow! But ” The Prince 

made a face and a gesture indicating a question in regard 
to the innkeeper’s character. 

“ Oh, do not be afraid,” answered the priest. “ He is 
the most honest man alive.” 

“ Of course,” returned the Prince, politely, “ you have 
had many occasions of ascertaining that.” 

Giovanni, the innkeeper, returned with a bottle of wine 
and three glasses, which he placed upon the table, and 
proceeded to fill. 

“By the by,” said the Prince, “in the excitement I 
forgot to inquire for your Signora. She is well, I 
hope ? ” 

“Thank you — she is very well,” replied Giovanni, 
shortly. 

“A boy, I have no doubt ? ” 

CC A splendid boy,” answered the curate. “ Sor Gio- 
vanni has a little girl, too. He is a very happy man.” 

“Your health,” said the innkeeper, holding up his glass 
to the light. 

“ And yours,” returned the Prince. 

“ And of all the Saraeinesca family,” said the curate, 
sipping his wine slowly. He rarely got a glass of old 
Lacrima, and he enjoyed it thoroughly. 

“And now,” said the Prince, “I must be off. Many 
thanks for your hospitality. I shall always remember 
with pleasure the day when I met an unknown relation.” 

“The Albergo di Napoli will not forget that Prince 
Saraeinesca has been its guest,” replied Giovanni politely, 
a smile upon his thin lips. He shook hands with both 


390 


SARACINESCA. 


his guests, and ushered them out to the door with a cour- 
teous bow. Before they had gone twenty yards in the 
street, the Prince looked back and caught a last glimpse 
of Giovanni’s towering figure, standing upon the steps 
with the bright light falling upon it from within. He 
remembered that impression long. 

At the door of his own inn he took leave of the good 
curate with many expressions of thanks, and with many 
invitations to the Palazzo Saracinesca, in case the old man 
ever visited Rome. 

“ I have never seen Rome, your Excellency,” answered 
the priest, rather sadly. “ I am an old man — I shall never 
see it now.” 

So they parted, and the Prince had a solitary supper of 
pigeons and salad in the great dusky hall of the Locanda 
del Sole, while his horses were being got ready for the 
long night-journey. 

The meeting and the whole clearing up of the curious 
difficulty had produced a profound impression upon the 
old Prince. He had not the slightest doubt but that the 
story of the curate w T as perfectly accurate. It was all so 
very probable, too. In the wild times between 1806 and 
1815 the last of the Neapolitan branch of the Saracinesca 
had disappeared, and the rich and powerful Roman 
princes of the name had been quite willing to believe the 
Marchesi di San Giacinto extinct. They had not even 
troubled themselves to claim the title, for they possessed 
more than fifty of their own, and there was no chance of 
recovering the San Giacinto estate, already mortgaged, 
and more than half squandered at the time of the confis- 
cation. That the rough soldier of fortune should have 
hidden himself in his native country after the return of 
Ferdinand, his lawful king, against whom he had fought, 
was natural enough ; as it was also natural that, with his 
rough nature, he should accommodate himself to a peas- 
ant’s life, and marry a peasant’s only daughter, with her 
broad acres of orange and olive and vine land ; for peas- 
ants in the far south were often rich, and their daughters 


SARACINESCA. 391 

were generally beautiful — a very different race from the 
starved tenants of the Roman Campagna. 

The Prince decided that the story was perfectly true, 
and he reflected somewhat bitterly that unless his son had 
heirs after him, this herculean innkeeper of Aqnila was the 
lawful successor to his own title, and to all the Saracinesca 
lands. He determined that Giovanni’s marriage should 
not be delayed another day, and with his usual impetu- 
osity he hastened back to Rome, hardly remembering that 
he had spent the previous night and all that day upon the 
road, and that he had another twenty-four hours of travel 
before him. 

At dawn his carriage stopped at a little town not far 
from the papal frontier. Just as the vehicle was starting, 
a large man, muffled in a huge cloak, from the folds of 
which protruded the long brown barrel of a rifle, put his 
head into the window. The Prince started and grasped 
his revolver, which lay beside him on the seat. 

“ Good morning, Prince,” said the man. “ I hope you 
have slept well.” 

“ Sor Giovanni ! ” exclaimed the old gentleman. “ Where 
did you drop from ? ” 

“ The roads are not very safe,” returned the innkeeper. 
“ So I thought it best to accompany you. Good-bye — 
buon viaggio ! ” 

Before the Prince could answer, the carriage rolled off, 
the horses springing forward at a gallop. Saracinesca 
put his head out of the window, but his namesake had 
disappeared, and he rolled on towards Terni, wondering 
at the innkeeper’s anxiety for his safety. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

Even old Saracinesca’s iron strength was in need of rest 
when, at the end of forty-eight hours, he again entered 
his son’s rooms, and threw himself upon the great divan. 

“ How is Corona ? ” was his first question. 


392 


SARACINESCA. 


“ She is very anxious about you,” returned Giovanni, 
who was himself considerably disturbed. 

“ We will go and set her mind at rest as soon as I have 
had something to eat,” said his father. 

“ It is all right, then ? It was just as I said — a name- 
sake ? ” 

“ Precisely. Only the namesake happens to be a cousin 
— the last of the San Giacinto, who keeps an inn in Aquila. 
I saw him, and shook hands with him.” 

“ Impossible ! ” exclaimed Giovanni. “They are all 
extinct ” 

“ There has been a resurrection,” returned the Prince. 
He told the whole story of his journey, graphically and 
quickly. 

“ That is a very extraordinary tale,” remarked Giovanni, 
thoughtfully. “So, if I die without children the inn- 
keeper will be prince.” 

“ Precisely. And now, Giovanni, you must be married 
next week.” 

“ As soon as you please — to-morrow if you like.” 

“What shall we do with Del Ferice ?” asked the old 
prince. 

“Ask him to the wedding,” answered Giovanni, mag- 
nanimously. 

“The wedding will have to be a very quiet one, I sup- 
pose,” remarked his father, thoughtfully. “ The year is 
hardly over ” 

“ The more quiet the better, provided it is done quickly. 
Of course we must consult Corona at once.” 

“ Do you suppose I am going to fix the wedding-day 
without consulting her ? ” asked the old man. “ For 
heaven’s sake order dinner, and let us be quick about it.” 

The Prince was evidently in a hurry, and moreover, he 
was tired and very hungry. An hour later, as both the 
men sat over the coffee in the dining-room, his mood was 
mellower. A dinner at home has a wonderful effect upon 
the temper of a man who has travelled and fared badly 
for eight-and-forty hours. 


SARACINESCA. 


393 


“ Giovannino,” said old Saracinesca, “ have you any 
idea what the Cardinal thinks of your marriage ? ” 

“ No ; and I do not care,” answered the younger man. 
“He once advised me not to marry Donna Tullia. He 
has not seen me often since then.” 

“ I have an idea that it will please him immensely,” 
said the Prince. 

“ It would be very much the same if it displeased him.” 

“Very much the same. Have you seen Corona to- 
day ? ” 

“Yes — of course,” answered Giovanni. 

“What is the use of my going with you this even- 
ing?” asked his father, suddenly. “I should think you 
could manage your own affairs without my help.” 

“ I thought that as you have taken so much trouble, 
you would enjoy telling her the story yourself.” 

“ Do you think I am a vain fool, sir, to be amused by 
a woman’s praise ? Nonsense ! Go yourself.” 

“By all means,” answered Giovanni. He was used to 
his father’s habit of being quarrelsome over trifles, and 
he was much too happy to take any notice of it now. 

“You are tired,” he continued. “I am sure you have 
a right to be. You must want to go to bed.” 

“ To bed indeed ! ” growled the old man. “ Tired ! 
You think I am good for nothing; I know you do. 
You look upon me as a doting old cripple. I tell you, 
boy, I can ” 

“ For heaven’s sake, padre mio , do precisely as you are 
inclined. I never said ” 

“Never said what? Why are you always quarrelling 
with me ? ” roared his father, who had not lost his tem- 
per for two days, and missed his favourite exercise. 

“ What day shall we fix upon ? ” asked Giovanni, un- 
moved. 

“Day! Any day. What do I care? Oh! — well, 
since you speak of it, you might say a week from Sunday, 
To-day is Friday. But I do not care in the least.” 

“Very well — if Corona can get ready.” 


394 


SARACINESCA. 


“ She shall be ready — she must be ready ! ” answered 
the old gentleman, in a tone of conviction. “Why 
should she not be ready, I would like to know ? ” 

“No reason whatever/’ said Giovanni, with unusual 
mildness. 

“ Of course not. There is never any reason in any- 
thing you say, you unreasonable boy.” 

“Never, of course.” Giovanni rose to go, biting his 
lips to keep down a laugh. 

“ What the devil do you mean by always agreeing with 
me, you impertinent scapegrace ? And you are laughing, 
too — laughing at me, sir, as I live! Upon my word!” 

Giovanni turned his back and lighted a cigar. Then, 
without looking round, he walked towards the door. 

“ Giovannino,” called the Prince. 

“Well?” 

“I feel better now. I wanted to abuse somebody. 
Look here — wait a moment.” He rose quickly, and left 
the room. 

Giovanni sat down and smoked rather impatiently, 
looking at his watch from time to time. In five minutes 
his father returned, bringing in his hand an old red 
morocco case. 

“Give it to her with my compliments, my boy,” he 
said. “ They are some of your mother’s diamonds — just 
a few of them. She shall have the rest on the wedding- 
day.” 

“ Thank you,” said Giovanni, and pressed his father’s 
hand. 

“ And give her my love, and say I will call to-morrow 
at two o’clock,” added the Prince, now perfectly serene. 

With the diamonds under his arm, Giovanni went out. 
The sky was clear and frosty, and the stars shone 
brightly, high up between the tall houses of the narrow 
street. Giovanni had not ordered a carriage, and seeing 
how fine the night was, he decided to walk to his desti- 
nation. It was not eight o’clock, and Corona would have 
scarcely finished dinner at that hour. He walked 


SARACINESCA. 395 

slowly. As he emerged into the Piazza di Venezia some 
one overtook him. 

“ Good evening, Prince.” Giovanni turned, and recog- 
nised Anastase Gouache, the Zouave. 

“ Ah, Gouache — how are you ? ” 

“ I am going to pay you a visit,” answered the French- 
man. 

“I am very sorry — I have just left home,” returned 
Giovanni, in some surprise. 

“Not at your house,” continued Anastase. “ My com- 
pany is ordered to the mountains. We leave to-morrow 
morning for Subiaco, and some of us are to be quartered 
at Saracinesca.” 

“I hope you will be among the number,” said Gio- 
vanni. ‘ ‘ I shall probably be married next week, and the 
Duchessa wishes to go at once to the mountains. We 
shall be delighted to see you.” 

“Thank you very much. I will not fail to do myself 
the honour. My homage to Madame la Duchesse. I 
must turn here. Good night.” 

“Au revoir,” said Giovanni, and went on his way. 

He found Corona in an inner sitting-room, reading be- 
side a great wood-fire. There were soft shades of lilac 
mingled with the black of her dress. The year of mourn- 
ing was past, and so soon as she could she modified her 
widow’s weeds into something less solemnly black. It 
was impossible to wear funeral robes on the eve of her 
second marriage ; and the world had declared that she had 
shown an extraordinary degree of virtue in mourning so 
long for a death which every one considered so highly ap- 
propriate. Corona, however, felt differently. To her, her 
dead husband and the man she now so wholly loved be- 
longed to two totally distinct classes of men. Her love, 
her marriage with Giovanni, seemed so natural a conse- 
quence of her being left alone — so absolutely removed 
from her former life — that, on the eve of her wedding, 
she could almost wish that poor old Astrardente were alive 
to look as her friend upon her new-found happiness. 


396 


SARACINESCA. 


She welcomed Giovanni with a bright smile. She had 
not expected him that evening, for he had been with her 
all the afternoon. She sprang to her feet and came quickly 
to meet him. She almost unconsciously took the morocco 
case from his hands, not looking at it, and hardly noticing 
what she did. 

“ My father has come back. It is all settled ! ” cried 
Giovanni. 

“So soon! He must have flown!” said she, making 
him sit down. 

“ Yes, he has never rested, and he has found out all 
about it. It is a most extraordinary story. By the by, 
he sends you affectionate messages, and begs you to ac- 
cept these diamonds. They were my mother’s,” he added, 
his voice softening and changing. Corona understood his 
tone, and perhaps realised, too, how very short the time 
now was. She opened the case carefully. 

“ They are very beautiful ; your mother wore them, 
Giovanni ? ” She looked lovingly at him, and then bend- 
ing down kissed the splendid coronet as though in rever- 
ence of the dead Spanish woman who had borne the man 
she loved. Whereat Giovanni stole to her side, and kissed 
her own dark hair very tenderly. 

“ I was to tell you that there are a great many more,” 
he said, “ which my father will offer you on the wedding- 
day.” Then he kneeled down beside her, and raising the 
crown from its case, set it with both his hands upon her 
diadem of braids. 

“ My princess ! ” he exclaimed. “ How beautiful you 
are ! ” He took the great necklace, and clasped it about 
her white throat. “ Of course,” he said, “ you have such 
splendid jewels of your own, perhaps you hardly care for 
these and the rest. But I like to see you with them — it 
makes me feel that you are really mine.” 

Corona smiled happily, and gently took the coronet from 
her head, returning it to its case. She let the necklace 
remain about her throat. 

“You have not told me about your father’s discovery,” 
she said, suddenly. 


SARACINESCA. 


397 


“Yes — I will tell you.” 

In a few minutes he communicated to her the details 
of the journey. She listened with profound interest. 

“It is very strange,” she said. “And yet it is so very 
natural.” 

“You see it is all Del Fence’s doing,” said Giovanni. 
“ I suppose it was really an accident in the first place ; but 
he managed to make a great deal of it. It is certainly 
very amusing to find that the last of the other branch is 
an innkeeper in the Abruzzi. However, I daresay we 
shall never hear of him again. He does not seem inclined 
to claim his title. Corona mia, I have something much 
more serious to say to you to-night.” 

“What is it ?” she asked, turning her great dark eyes 
rather wonderingly to his face. 

“ There is no reason why we should not be married, 
now ” 

“ Do you think I ever believed there was ? ” she asked, 
reproachfully. 

“ Ho, dear. Only — would you mind its being very 

soon ? ” 

The dark blood rose slowly to her cheek, but she 
answered without any hesitation. She was too proud to 
hesitate. 

“ Whenever you please, Giovanni. Only it must be very 
quiet, and we will go straight to Saracinesca. If you agree 
to those two things, it shall be as soon as you please.” 

“ Hext week ? A week from Sunday ? ” asked Giovanni, 
eagerly. 

“Yes — a week from Sunday. I would rather not go 
through the ordeal of a long engagement. I cannot bear 
to have every one here, congratulating me from morning 
till night, as they insist upon doing.” 

“ I will send the people out to Saracinesca to-morrow,” 
said Giovanni, in great delight. “They have been at 
work all winter, making the place respectable,” 

“Hot changing, I hope ? ” exclaimed Corona, who dearly 
loved the old grey walls. 


898 


SARACINESCA. 


“ Only repairing the state apartments. By the by, I 
met Gouache this evening. He is going out with a com- 
pany of Zouaves to hunt the brigands, if there really are 
any.” 

“ I hope he will not come near us,” answered Corona. 
“ I want to be all alone with you, Giovanni, for ever so 
long. Would you not rather be alone for a little while ? ” 
she asked, looking up suddenly with a timid smile. 
“ Should I bore you very much ? ” 

It is unnecessary to record Giovanni’s answer. If 
Corona longed to be alone with him in the hills, Gio- 
vanni himself desired such a retreat still more. To be 
out of the world, even for a month, seemed to him the 
most delightful of prospects, for he was weary of the 
. city, of society, of eveything save the woman he was 
about to marry. Of her he could never tire ; he could 
not imagine that in her company the days would ever 
seem long, even in old Saracinesca, among the grey rocks 
of the Sabines. The average man is gregarious, perhaps ; 
but in strong minds there is often a great desire for 
solitude, or at least for retirement, in the society of one 
sympathetic soul. The instinct which bids such people 
leave the world for a time is never permanent, unless 
they become morbid. It is a natural feeling ; and a 
strong brain gathers strength from communing with itself 
or with its natural mate. There are few great men who 
have not at one lime or another withdrawn into solitude, 
and their retreat has generally been succeeded by a period 
of extraordinary activity. Strong minds are often, at 
some time or another, exposed to doubt and uncertainty 
incomprehensible to a smaller intellect — due, indeed, to 
that very breadth of view which contemplates the same 
idea from a vast number of sides. To a man so endowed, 
the casting-vote of some one whom he loves, and with 
whom he almost unconsciously sympathises, is some- 
times necessary to produce action, to direct the faculties, 
to guide the overflowing flood of his thought into the 
mill-race of life’s work. Without a certain amount of 


SARACINESCA. 


399 


prejudice to determine the resultant of its forces, many a 
fine intellect would expend its power in burrowing among 
its own labyrinths, unrecognised, misunderstood, unheard 
by the working-day world without. For the working-day 
world never lacks prejudice to direct its working. 

For some time Giovanni and Corona talked of their 
plans for the spring and summer. They would read, 
they would work together at the schemes for uniting 
and improving their estates ; they would build that new 
road from Astrardente to Saracinesca, concerning which 
there had been so much discussion during the last year ; 
they would visit every part of their lands together, and 
inquire into the condition of every peasant ; they would 
especially devote their attention to extending the forest 
enclosures, in which Giovanni foresaw a source of wealth 
for his children; above all, they would talk to their 
hearts’ content, and feel, as each day dawned upon their 
happiness, that they were free to go where they would, 
without being confronted at every turn by the trouble- 
some duties of an exigent society. 

At last the conversation turned again upon recent 
events, and especially upon the part Del Ferice and 
Donna Tullia had played in attempting to prevent the 
marriage. Corona asked what Giovanni intended to do 
about the matter. 

“I do not see that there is much to be done,” he 
answered. "I will go to Donna Tullia to-morrow, and 
explain that there has been a curious mistake — that I am 
exceedingly obliged to her for calling my attention to the 
existence of a distant relative, but that I trust she will 
not in future interfere in my affairs.” 

“ Do you think she will marry Del Ferice after all ? ” 
asked Corona. 

“Why not ? Of course he gave her the papers. Very 
possibly he thought they really proved my former mar- 
riage. She will perhaps blame him for her failure, but 
he will defend himself, never fear ; he will make heif 
marry him.” 


400 


SARACINESCA. 


“ I wish they would marry and go away,” said Corona, 
to whom the very name of Del Ferice was abhorrent, and 
who detested Donna Tullia almost as heartily. Corona 
was a very good and noble woman, but she was very far 
from that saintly superiority which forgets to resent 
injuries. Her passions were eminently human, and very 
strong. She had struggled bravely against her over- 
whelming love for Giovanni ; and she had so far got the 
mastery of herself, that she would have endured to the 
end if her husband’s death had not set her at liberty. 
Perhaps, too, while she felt the necessity of fighting 
against that love, she attained for a time to an elevation 
of character which would have made such personal inju- 
ries as Donna Tullia could inflict seem insignificant in 
comparison with the great struggle she sustained against 
an even greater evil. But in the realisation of her free- 
dom, in suddenly giving the rein to her nature, so long 
controlled by her resolute will, all passion seemed to 
break out at once with renewed force; and the conviction 
that her anger against her two enemies was perfectly 
just and righteous, added fuel to the fire. Her eyes 
gleamed fiercely as she spoke of Del Ferice and his bride, 
and no punishment seemed too severe for those who had 
so treacherously tried to dash the cup of her happiness 
from her very lips. 

“I wish they would marry,” she repeated, “and I wish 
the Cardinal would turn them out of Kome the next day.” 

“ That might be done,” said Giovanni, who had himself 
revolved more than one scheme of vengeance against the 
evil-doers. “ The trouble is, that the Cardinal despises Del 
Ferice and his political dilettanteism. He does not care 
a fig whether the fellow remains in Borne or goes away. 
I confess it would be a great satisfaction to wring the 
villain’s neck.” 

“ You must not fight him again, Giovanni,” said Corona, 
in sudden alarm. “ You must not risk your life now — you 
know it is mine now.” She laid her hand tenderly on his, 
and it trembled. 


SARACINESCA. 


401 


“ No, dearest — I certainly will not. But my father is 
very angry. I think we may safely leave the treatment of 
Del Ferice in his hands. My father is a very sudden and 
violent man.” 

“ I know / 7 replied Corona. “ He is magnificent when 
he is angry. I have no doubt he will settle Del Fence’s 
affairs satisfactorily.” She laughed almost fiercely. Gio- 
vanni looked at her anxiously, yet not without pride, as 
he recognised in her strong anger something akin to 
himself. 

“ How fierce you are ! ” he said, with a smile. 

“ Have I not cause to be ? Have I not cause to wish 
these people an evil end ? Have they not nearly separated 
us ? Nothing is bad enough for them — what is the use of 
pretending not to feel ? You are calm, Giovanni ? Per- 
haps you are much stronger than I am. I do not think 
you realise what they meant to do — to separate us — us ! 
As if any torture were bad enough for them ! ” 

Giovanni had never seen her so thoroughly roused. He 
was angry himself, and more than angry, for his cheek 
paled, and his stern features grew more hard, while his 
voice dropped to a hoarser tone. 

“ Do not mistake me, Corona,” he said. “ Do not think 
I am indifferent because I am quiet. Del Ferice shall 
expiate all some day, and bitterly too.” 

“ Indeed I hope so,” • answered Corona between her 
teeth. Had Giovanni foreseen the long and bitter struggle 
he would one day have to endure before that expiation was 
complete, he would very likely have renounced his ven- 
geance then and there, for his wife’s sake. But we mortals 
see but in a glass ; and when the mirror is darkened by 
the master-passion of hate, we see not at all. Corona and 
Giovanni, united, rich and powerful, might indeed appear 
formidable to a wretch like Del Ferice, dependent upon a 
system of daily treachery for the very bread he ate. But 
in those days the wheel of fortune was beginning to turn, 
and far-sighted men prophesied that many an obscure in- 
dividual would one day be playing the part of a greit 

z 


402 


SARACINESCA. 


personage. Years would still elapse before the change, 
but the change would surely come at last. 

Giovanni was very thoughtful as he walked home that 
night. He w r as happy, and he had cause to be, for the 
long-desired day was at hand. He had nearly attained 
the object of his life, and there was now no longer any 
obstacle to be overcome. The relief he felt at his father’s 
return was very great ; for although he had known that 
the impediment raised would be soon removed, any im- 
pediment whatever was exasperating, and he could not 
calculate the trouble that might be caused by the further 
machinations of Donna Tullia and her affianced husband. 
All difficulties had, however, been overcome by his father’s 
energetic action, and at once Giovanni felt as though a 
load had fallen from his shoulders, and a veil from his 
eyes. He saw himself wedded to Corona in less than a 
fortnight, removed from the sphere of society and of all 
his troubles, living for a space alone with her in his an- 
cestral home, calling her, at last, his wife. Nevertheless 
he was thoughtful, and his expression was not one of un- 
mingled gladness, as he threaded the streets on his way 
home ; for his mind reverted to Del Ferice and to Donna 
Tullia, and Corona’s fierce look was still before him. He 
reflected that she had been nearly as much injured as him- 
self, that her wrath was legitimate, and that it was his 
duty to visit her sufferings as well as his own upon the 
offenders. His melancholic nature easily fell to brooding 
over any evil which was strong enough to break the barrier 
of his indifference ; and the annoyances which had sprung 
originally from so small a cause had grown to gigantic 
proportions, and had struck at the very roots of his 
happiness. 

He had begun by disliking Del Ferice in an indifferent 
way whenever he chanced to cross his path. Del Ferice 
had resented this haughty indifference as a personal insult, 
and had set about injuring Giovanni, attempting to thwart 
him whenever he could. Giovanni had caught Del Ferice 
in a dastardly trick, and had been so far roused as to take 


SARACINESCA. 


403 


summary vengeance upon him in the duel which took 
place after the Frangipani ball. The wound had entered 
into Ugo’s soul, and his hatred had grown the faster that 
he found no opportunity of revenge. Then, at last, when 
Giovanni’s happiness had seemed complete, his enemy had 
put forward his pretended proof of a former marriage ; 
knowing well enough that his weapons were not invincible 
— were indeed very weak — but unable to resist any longer 
the desire for vengeance. Once more Giovanni had tri- 
umphed easily, but with victory came the feeling that it 
was his turn to punish his adversary. And now there 
was a new and powerful motive added to Giovanni’s just 
resentment, in the anger his future wife felt, and had a 
good right to feel, at the treachery which had been prac- 
tised upon both. It had taken two years to rouse Gio- 
vanni to energetic action against one whom he had in 
turn regarded with indifference, then despised, then hon- 
estly disliked, and finally hated. But his hatred had 
been doubled each time by a greater injury, and was not 
likely to be easily satisfied. Nothing short of Del 
Ferice’s destruction would be enough, and his destruc- 
tion must be brought about by legal means. 

Giovanni had not far to seek for his weapons. He 
had long suspected Del Ferice of treasonable practices ; 
he did not doubt that with small exertion he could find 
evidence to convict him. He would, then, allow him to 
marry Donna Tullia; and on the day after the wedding, 
Del Ferice should be arrested and lodged in the prison 
of the Holy Office as a political delinquent of the mean- 
est and most dangerous kind — as a political spy. The 
determination was soon reached. It did not seem cruel 
to Giovanni, for he was in a relentless mood ; it would 
not have seemed cruel to Corona, — Del Ferice had de- 
served all that, and more also. 

So Giovanni went home and slept the sleep of a man 
who has made up his mind upon an important matter. 
And in the morning he rose early and communicated h{s 
ideas to his father. The result was that they determined 


404 


SARACINESCA. 


for the present to avoid an interview with Donna Tullia, 
and to communicate to her by letter the result of old 
Saraeinesca’s rapid journey to Aquila. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

When Donna Tullia received Saracinesca’s note, ex- 
plaining the existence of a second Giovanni, his pedigree 
and present circumstances, she almost fainted with dis- 
appointment. It seemed to her that she had compromised 
herself before the world, that all Rome knew the ridicu- 
lous part she had played in Del Ferice’s comedy, and 
that her shame would never be forgotten. Suddenly she 
saw how she had been led away by her hatred of Gio- 
vanni into believing blindly in a foolish tale which 
ought not to have deceived a child. So soon as she 
learned the existence of a second Giovanni Saracinesca, 
it seemed to her that she must have been mad not to 
foresee such an explanation from the first. She had 
been duped, she had been made a cat’s-paw, she had been 
abominably deceived by Del Ferice, who had made use 
of this worthless bribe in order to extort from her a 
promise of marriage. She felt very ill, as very vain peo- 
ple often do when they feel that they have been made 
ridiculous. She lay upon the sofa in her little boudoir, 
where everything was in the worst possible taste — from the 
gaudy velvet carpet and satin furniture to the gilt clock 
on the chimney-piece — and she turned red and pale and 
red again, and wished she were dead, or in Paris, or any- 
where save in Rome. If she went out she might meet 
one of the Saracinesca at any turn of the street, or even 
Corona herself. How they would bow and smile sweetly 
at her, enjoying her discomfiture with the polite supe- 
riority of people who cannot be hurt ! 

And she herself — she could not tell what she should 


SARACINESCA. 


405 


do. She had announced her engagement to Del Ferice, 
but she could not marry him. She had been entrapped 
into making him a promise, into swearing a terrible oath ; 
but the Church did not consider such oaths binding. She 
would go to Padre Filippo and ask his advice. 

But then, if she went to Padre Filippo, she would have 
to confess all she had done, and she was not prepared to 
do that. A few weeks would pass, and that time would 
be sufficient to mellow and smooth the remembrance of 
her revengeful projects into a less questionable shape. 
No — she could not confess all that just yet. Surely 
such an oath was not binding; at all events, she could 
not marry Del Ferice, whether she broke her promise or 
not. In the first place, she would send for him and vent 
her anger upon him while it was hot. 

Accordingly, in the space of three-quarters of an hour, 
Ugo appeared, smiling, smooth and persuasive as usual. 
Donna Tullia assumed a fine attitude of disdain as she 
heard his step outside the door. She intended to impress 
him with a full and sudden view of her just anger. He 
did not seem much moved, and came forward as .usual to 
take her hand and kiss it. But she folded her arms and 
stared at him with all the contempt she could concentrate 
in the gaze of her blue eyes. It was a good comedy. 
Del Ferice, who had noticed as soon as he entered the 
room that something was wrong, and had already half 
guessed the cause, affected to spring back in horror when 
she refused to give her hand. His pale face expressed 
sufficiently well a mixture of indignation and sorrow at 
the harsh treatment he received. Still Donna Tullia’s 
cold eye rested upon him in a fixed stare. 

“ What is this ? What have I done ? ” asked Del 
Ferice in low tones. 

“ Can you ask? Wretch! Bead that, and understand 
what you have done/’ answered Donna Tullia, making 
a step forward and thrusting Saracinesca’s letter qn his 
face. 

Del Ferice had already seen the handwriting, and knew 


406 


SARACINESCA. 


what the contents were likely to be. He took the letter 
in one hand, and without looking at it, still faced the 
angry woman. His brows contracted into a heavy frown, 
and his half-closed eyes gazed menacingly at her. 

“ It will be an evil day for any man who comes be- 
tween you and me,” he said, in tragic tones. 

Donna Tullia laughed harshly, and again drew herself 
up, watching his face, and expecting to witness his utter 
confusion. But she was no match for the actor whom 
she had promised to marry. Del Ferice began to read, 
and as he read, his frown relaxed ; gradually an ugly 
smile, intended to represent fiendish cunning, stole over 
his features, and when he had finished, he uttered a cry 
of triumph. 

“ Ha ! ” he said, “ I guessed it ! I hoped it — and it is 
true ! He is found at last ! The very man — the real 
Saracinesca ! It is only a matter of time ” 

Donna Tullia now stared in unfeigned surprise. In- 
stead of crushing him to the ground as she had expected, 
the letter seemed to fill him with boundless delight. He 
paced the room in wild excitement, chattering like a mad- 
man. In spite of herself, however, her own spirits rose, 
and her anger against Del Ferice softened. All was per- 
haps not lost — who could fathom the intricacy of his great 
schemes ? Surely he was not the man to fall a victim to 
his own machinations. 

“ Will you please explain your extraordinary satisfac- 
tion at this news ? ” said Madame Mayer. Between her 
late anger, her revived hopes, and her newly roused curi- 
osity, she was in a terrible state of suspense. 

“ Explain ? ” he cried. “ Explain what, most adorable 
of women? Does it not explain itself ? Have we not 
found the Marchese di San Giacinto, the real Saracinesca? 
Is not that enough ? ” 

“I do not understand ” 

Del Ferice was now by her side. He seemed hardly 
able to control himself for joy. As a matter of fact he 
was acting, and acting a desperate part too, suggested on 


SARACINESCA. 


407 


the spur of the moment by the risk he ran of losing this 
woman and her fortune on the very eve of marriage. Now 
he seized her hand, and drawing her arm through his, led 
her quickly backwards and forwards, talking fast and 
earnestly. It would not do to hesitate, for by a moment’s 
appearance of uncertainty all would be lost. 

“No; of course you cannot understand the vast im- 
portance of this discovery. I must explain. I must enter 
into historic details, and I am so much overcome by this 
extraordinary turn of fortune that I can hardly speak. 
Remove all doubt from your mind, my dear lady, for we 
have already triumphed. This innkeeper, this Giovanni 
Saracinesca, this Marchese di San Giacinto, is the lawful 
and right Prince Saracinesca, the head of the house — — ” 

“ What ! ” screamed Donna Tullia, stopping short, and 
gripping his arm as in a vice. 

“ Indeed he is. I suspected it when I first found the 
signature at Aquila; but the man was gone, with his 
newly married wife, no one knew whither ; and I could 
not find him, search as I might. He is now returned, and 
what is more, as this letter says, with all his papers prov- 
ing his identity. This is how the matter lies. Listen, 
Tullia mia. The old Leone Saracinesca who last bore 
the title of Marquis ” 

“ The one mentioned here ? ” asked Donna Tullia, 
breathlessly. 

“Yes — the one who took service under Murat, under 
Napoleon. Well, it is perfectly well known that he laid 
claim to the Roman title, and with perfect justice. Two 
generations before that, there had been an amicable ar- 
rangement — amicable, but totally illegal — whereby the 
elder brother, who was an unmarried invalid, transferred 
the Roman estates to his younger brother, who was mar- 
ried and had children, and, in exchange, took the Nea- 
politan estates and title, which had just fallen back to the 
main branch by the death of a childless Marchese dLSan 
Giacinto. Late in life this old recluse invalid married, 
contrary to all expectation — certainly contrary to his own 


408 


SAEACINESCA. 


previous intentions. However, a child was born — a boy. 
The old man found himself deprived by his own act of his 
principality, and the succession turned from his son to the 
son of his younger brother. He began a negotiation for 
again obtaining possession of the Koman title — at least so 
the family tradition goes — but his brother, who was firmly 
established in Koine, refused to listen to his demands. At 
this juncture the old man died, being legally, observe, still 
the head of the family of Saracinesca; his son should have 
succeeded him. But his wife, the young daughter of an 
obscure Neapolitan nobleman, was not more than eighteen 
years of age, and the child was only six months old. 
People married young in those days. She entered some 
kind of protest, which, however, was of no avail ; and the 
boy grew up to be called the Marchese di San Giacinto. 
He learned the story of his birth from his mother, and 
protested in his turn. He ruined himself in trying to 
push his suit in the Neapolitan courts ; and finally, in the 
days of Napoleon’s success, he took service under Murat, 
receiving the solemn promise of the Emperor that he 
should be reinstated in his title. But the Emperor forgot 
his promise, or did not find it convenient to keep it, hav- 
ing perhaps reasons of his own for not quarrelling with 
Pius the Seventh, who protected the Koman Saracinesca 
Then came 1815, the downfall of the Empire, the restora* 
tion of Ferdinand IV. in Naples, the confiscation of prop- 
erty from all who had joined the Emperor, and the 
consequent complete ruin of San Giacinto’s hopes. He 
was supposed to have been killed, or to have made away 
with himself. Saracinesca himself acknowledges that 
his grandson is alive, and possesses all the family papers. 
Saracinesca himself has discovered, seen, and conversed 
with the lawful head of his race, who, by the blessing of 
heaven and the assistance of the courts, will before long 
turn him out of house and home, and reign in his stead 
in all the glories of the Palazzo Saracinesca, Prince of 
Kome, of the Holy Koman Empire, grandee of Spain of 
the first class, and all the rest of it. Do you wonder 


SARACINESCA. 


409 


I rejoice, now that I am sure of putting an innkeeper 
over my enemy’s head ? Fancy the humiliation of 
old Saracinesca, of Giovanni, who will have to take 
his wife’s title for the sake of respectability, of the As- 
trardente herself, when she finds she has married the 
penniless son of a penniless pretender ! ” 

Del Ferice knew enough of the Saracinesca’s family 
history to know that something like what he had so 
fluently detailed to Donna Tullia had actually occurred, 
and he knew well enough that she would not remember 
every detail of his rapidly told tale. Hating the family 
as he did, he had diligently sought out all information 
about them which he could obtain without gaining access 
to their private archives. His ready wit helped him to 
string the whole into a singularly plausible story. So 
plausible, indeed, that it entirely upset all Donna Tullia’s 
determination to be angry at Del Ferice, and filled her 
with something of the enthusiasm he showed. For him- 
self he hoped that there was enough in his story to do 
some palpable injury to the Saracinesca; but- his more 
immediate object was not to lose Donna Tullia by letting 
her feel any disappointment at the discovery recently 
made by the old Prince. Donna Tullia listened with 
breathless interest until he had finished. 

“What a man you are, Ugo! How you turn defeat 
into victory ! Is it all really true ? Do you think we 
can do it ? ” 

“ If I were to die this instant,” Del Ferice asseverated, 
solemnly raising his hand, “ it is all perfectly true, so help 
me God ! ” 

He hoped, for many reasons, that he was not perjuring 
himself. 

“ What shall we do, then ? ” asked Madame Mayer. 

“ Let them marry first, and then we shall be sure of 
humiliating them both,” he answered. Unconsciously 
he repeated the very determination which Giovanni 
had formed against him the night before. “ Meanwhile, 
you and I can consult the lawyers and see how this 


410 


SARACINESCA. 


thing can best be accomplished quickly and surely,” he 
added. 

“You will have to send for the innkeeper ” 

“ I will go and see him. It will not be hard to persuade 
him to claim his lawful rights.” 

Del Ferice remained some time in conversation with 
Donna Tullia. The magnitude of the scheme fascinated 
her, and instead of thinking of breaking her promise to 
Ugo as she had intended doing, she so far fell under his 
influence as to name the wedding-day, — Easter Monday, 
they agreed, would exactly suit them and their plans. 
Indeed the idea of refusing to fulfil her engagement had 
been but the result of a transitory fit of anger ; if she had 
had any fear of making a misalliance in marrying Del 
Ferice, the way in which the world received the liews of 
the engagement removed all such apprehension from her 
mind. Del Ferice was already treated with increased re- 
spect — the very servants began to call him “ Eccellenza,” 
a distinction to which he neither had, nor could ever have, 
any kind of claim, but which pleased Donna Tullia’s vain 
soul. The position which Ugo had obtained for himself 
by an assiduous attention to the social claims and preju- 
dices of social lights and oracles, was suddenly assured to 
him, and rendered tenfold more brilliant by the news of 
his alliance with Donna Tullia. He excited no jealousies 
either; for Donna Tullia’s peculiarities were of a kind 
which seemed to have interfered from the first with her 
matrimonial projects. As a young girl, a relation of the 
Saracinesca, whom she now so bitterly hated, she should 
have been regarded as marriageable by any of the young 
Homan nobles, from Yaldarno down. But she had only 
a small dowry, and she was said to be extravagant — two 
objections then not so easily overcome as now. Moreover, 
she was considered to be somewhat flighty ; and the social 
jury decided that when she was married, she would be 
excellent company, but would make a very poor wife. 
Almost before they had finished discussing her, however, 
she had found a husband, in the shape of the wealthy 


SARACINESCA. 


411 


foreign contractor, Mayer, who wanted a wife from a good 
Roman house, and cared not at all for money. She treated 
him very well, but was speedily delivered from all her 
cares by his untimely death. Then, of all her fellow- 
citizens, none was found save the eccentric old Saracinesca, 
who believed that she would do for his son ; wherein it 
appeared that Giovanni’s father was the man of all others 
who least understood Giovanni’s inclinations. But this 
match fell to the ground, owing to Giovanni’s attachment 
to Corona, and Madame Mayer was left with the prospect 
of remaining a widow for the rest of her life, or of marry- 
ing a poor man. She chose the latter alternative, and fate 
threw into her way the cleverest poor man in Rome, as 
though desiring to compensate her for not having married 
one of the greatest nobles, in the person of Giovanni. 
Though she was always a centre of attraction, no one of 
those she most attracted wanted to marry her, and all 
expressed their unqualified approval of her ultimate choice. 
One said she was very generous to marry a penniless gen- 
tleman ; another remarked that she showed wisdom in 
choosing a man who was in the way of making himself 
a good position under the Italian Government ; a third 
observed that he was delighted, because he could enjoy 
her society without being suspected of wanting to marry 
her ; and all agreed in praising her, and in treating Del 
Ferice with the respect due to a man highly favored by 
fortune. 

Donna Tullia named the wedding-day, and her affianced 
husband departed in high spirits with himself, with her, 
and with his scheme. He felt still a little excited, and 
wanted to be alone. He hardly realised the magnitude of 
the plot he had undertaken, and needed time to reflect 
upon it ; but with the true instinct of an intriguing genius 
he recognised at once that his new plan was the thing he 
had sought for long and ardently, and that it was worth 
all his other plans put together. Accordingly he Went 
home, and proceeded to devote himself to the study of the 
question, sending a note to a friend of his — a young lawyer 


412 


SARACINESCA. 


of doubtful reputation, but of brilliant parts, whom he at 
once selected as his chief counsellor in the important affair 
he had undertaken. 

Before long he heard that the marriage of Don Giovanni 
Saracinesca to the Duchessa d’ Astrardente was to take place 
the next week, in the chapel of the Palazzo Saracinesca. 
At least popular report said that the ceremony was to take 
place there ; and that it was to be performed with great 
privacy was sufficiently evident from the fact that no in- 
vitations appeared to have been issued. Society did not 
fail to comment upon such exclusiveness, and it commented 
unfavourably, for it felt that it was being deprived of a 
long-anticipated spectacle. This state of things lasted for 
two days, when, upon the Sunday morning precisely a week 
before the wedding, all Rome was surprised by receiving 
an imposing invitation, setting forth that the marriage 
would be solemnised in the Basilica of the Santi Apostoli, 
and that it would be followed by a state reception at the 
Palazzo Saracinesca. It was soon known that the cere- 
mony would be performed by the Cardinal Archpriest of 
St Peter’s, that the united choirs of St Peter’s and of the 
Sixtine Chapel would sing the High Mass, and that the 
whole occasion would be one of unprecedented solemnity 
and magnificence. This was the programme published by 
the 1 Osservatore Romano,’ and that newspaper proceeded 
to pronounce a eulogy of some length and considerable 
eloquence upon the happy pair. Rome was fairly taken 
off its feet ; and although some malcontents were found, 
who said it was improper that Corona’s marriage should 
be celebrated with such pomp so soon after her husband’s 
death, the general verdict was that the whole proceeding 
was eminently proper and becoming to so important an 
event. So soon as every one had been invited, no one 
seemed to think it remarkable that the invitations should 
have been issued so late. It was Hot generally known that 
in the short time which elapsed between the naming of the 
day and the issuing of the cards, there had been several 
interviews between old Saracinesca and Cardinal Antonelli ; 


SARACINESCA. 


413 


that the former had explained Corona’s natural wish that 
the marriage should be private, and that the latter had 
urged many reasons why so great an event ought to be 
public ; that Saracinesca had said he did not care at all, 
and was only expressing the views of his son and of the 
bride ; that the Cardinal had repeatedly asseverated that 
he wished to please everybody ; that Corona had refused 
to be pleased by a public ceremony and that, finally, the 
Cardinal, seeing himself hard pressed, had persuaded his 
Holiness himself to express a wish that the marriage 
should take place in the most solemn and public manner; 
wherefore Corona had reluctantly yielded the point, and 
the matter was arranged. The fact was that the Cardinal 
wished to make a sort of demonstration of the solidarity 
of the Roman nobility : it suited his aims to enter into 
every detail which could add to the importance of the 
Roman Court, and which could help to impress upon the 
foreign Ministers the belief that in all matters the Romans 
as one man would stand by each other and by the Vatican. 
No one knew better than he how the spectacle of a relig- 
ious solemnity, at which the whole nobility would attend 
in a body, must strike the mind of a stranger in Rome ; 
for in Roman ceremonies of that day there was a pomp 
and magnificence surpassing that found in any other 
Court of Europe. The whole marriage would become an 
event of which he could make an impressive use, and he 
was determined not to forego any advantages which might 
arise from it ; for he was a man who of all men well un- 
derstood the value of details in maintaining prestige. 

But to the two principal actors in the day’s doings the 
affair was an unmitigated annoyance, and even their own 
great and true happiness could not lighten the excessive 
fatigue of the pompous ceremony and of the still more 
pompous reception which followed it. To describe that 
day would be to make out a catalogue of gorgeous equi- 
pages, gorgeous costumes, gorgeous decorations. Many 
pages would not suffice to enumerate the cardinals, the 
dignitaries, the ambassadors, the great nobles, whose mag- 


414 


SARACINESCA. 


nificent coaches drove up in long file through the Piazza 
dei Santi Apostoli to the door of the Basilica. The col- 
umns of the ‘ Osservatore Bomano ’ were full of it for a 
week afterwards. There was no end to the descriptions 
of the costumes, from the white satin and diamonds of 
the bride to the festal uniforms of the Cardinal Arch- 
priest’s retinue. Not a personage of importance was 
overlooked in the newspaper account, not a diplomatist, 
not an officer of Zouaves. And society read the praise 
of itself, and found it much more interesting than the 
praise of the bride and bridegroom and only one or two 
people were offended because the paper had made a mis- 
take in naming the colours of the hammer-cloths upon 
their coaches : so that the affair was a great success. 

But when at last the sun was low and the guests had de- 
parted from the Palazzo Saracinesca, Corona and Giovanni 
got into their travelling carriage under the great dark arch- 
way, and sighed a sigh of infinite relief. The old Prince 
put his arms tenderly around his new daughter and kissed 
her ; and for the second time in the course of this history, 
it is to be recorded that two tears stole silently down his 
brown cheeks to his grey beard. Then he embraced Gio- 
vanni, whose face was pale and earnest. 

“ This is not the end of our living together, padre mio,” 
he said. “ We shall expect you before long at Saracin- 
esca.” 

“ Yes, my boy,” returned the old man ; “ I will come 
and see you after Easter. But do not stay if it is too 
cold ; I have a little business to attend to in Borne before 
I join you,” he added, with a grim smile. 

“ I know,” replied Giovanni, a savage light in his black 
eyes. “ If you need help, send to me, or come yourself.” 

“No fear of that, Giovannino ; I have got a terrible 
helper. Now, be off. The guards are growing im- 
patient.” 

“ Good-bye. God bless you, padre mio ! ” 

“ God bless you both ! ” So they drove off, and left old 
Saracinesca standing bareheaded and alone under the dim 


SARACINESCA. 


415 


archway of his ancestral palace. The great carriage rolled 
out, and the guard of mounted gendarmes, which the Car- 
dinal had insisted upon sending with the young couple, 
half out of compliment, half for safety, fell in behind, and 
trotted down the narrow street, with a deafening clatter 
of hoofs and clang of scabbards. 

But Giovanni held Corona’s hand in his, and both were 
silent for a time. Then they rolled under the low vault 
of the Porta San Lorenzo and out into the evening sun- 
light of the Campagna beyond. 

“ God be praised that it has come at last ! ” said Gio- 
vanni. 

“ Yes, it has come,” answered Corona, her strong white 
fingers closing upon his brown hand almost convulsively ; 
“ and, come what may, you are mine, Giovanni, until we 
die ! ” 

There was something fierce in the way those two loved 
each other ; for they had fought many fights before they 
were united, and had overcome themselves, each alone, 
before they had overcome other obstacles together. 

Belays of horses awaited them on their way, and relays 
of mounted guards. Late that night they reached Sara- 
cinesca, all ablaze with torches and lanterns ; and the 
young men took the horses from the coach and yoked 
themselves to it with ropes, and dragged the cumbrous 
carriage up the last hill with furious speed, shouting and 
singing like madmen in the cool mountain air. Up the 
steep they rushed, and under the grand old gateway, made 
as bright as day with flaming torches ; and then there 
went up a shout that struck the old vaults like a wild 
chord of fierce music, and Corona knew that her journey 
was ended. 

So it was that Giovanni Saracinesca brought home his 
bride. 


416 


SAEACINESCA. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

The old Prince was left alone, as he had often been 
left before, when Giovanni was gone to the ends of the 
earth in pursuit of his amusements. On such occasions 
old Saracinesca frequently packed up his traps and fol- 
lowed his son’s example; but he rarely went further 
than Paris,- where he had many friends, and where he 
generally succeeded in finding consolation for his soli- 
tude. 

Now, however, he felt more than usually lonely. Gio- 
vanni had not gone far, it is true, for with good horses it 
was scarcely more than eight hours to the castle ; but, for 
the first time in his life, old Saracinesca felt that if he had 
suddenly determined to follow his son, he would not be 
welcome. The boy was married at last, and must be left 
in peace for a few days with his bride. With the con- 
trariety natural to him, old Saracinesca no sooner felt 
that his son was gone than he experienced the most 
ardent desire to be with him. He had often seen Gio- 
vanni leave the house at twenty-four hours’ notice on 
his way to some distant capital, and had not cared to 
accompany him, simply because he knew he might do so 
if he pleased; but now he felt that some one else had 
taken his place, and that, for a time at least, he was 
forcibly excluded from Giovanni’s society. It is very 
likely that but for the business which detained him in 
Rome he would have astonished the happy pair by 
riding into the gateway of the old castle on the day after 
the wedding : that business, however, was urgent, secret, 
and, moreover, very congenial to the old man’s present 
temper. 

He had discussed the matter fully with Giovanni, and 
they had agreed upon the course to be pursued. There 
was, nevertheless, much to be done before the end they 
both so earnestly desired could be attained. It seemed a 


SARACINESCA. 


417 


simple plan to go to Cardinal Antonelli and to demand the 
arrest of Del Ferice for his misdeeds ; but as yet those 
misdeeds were undefined, and it was necessary to define 
them. The Cardinal rarely resorted to such measures ex- 
cept when the case was urgent, and Saracinesca knew per- 
fectly well that it would be hard to prove anything more 
serious against Del Ferice than the crime of joining in the 
silly talk of Valdarno and his set. Giovanni had told his 
father plainly that he was sure Del Ferice derived his liv- 
ing from Some illicit source, but he was wholly unable to 
show what that source was. Most people believed the 
story that Del Ferice had inherited money from an ob- 
scure relative ; most people thought he was clever and 
astute, but were so far deceived by his frank and un- 
affected manner as to feel sure that he always said every- 
thing that came into his head ; most people are so much 
delighted when an unusually clever man deigns to talk to 
them, that they cannot, for vanity’s sake, suspect him of 
deceiving them. Saracinesca did not doubt that the mere 
statement of his own belief in regard to Del Ferice would 
have considerable weight with the Cardinal, for he was 
used to power of a certain kind, and was accustomed to 
see his judgment treated with deference ; but he knew the 
Cardinal to be a cautious man, hating despotic measures, 
because by his use of them he had made himself so bit- 
terly hated — loth always to do by force what might be 
accomplished by skill, and in the end far more likely to 
attempt the conversion of Del Ferice to the reactionary 
view, than to order his expulsion because his views were 
over liberal. Even if old Saracinesca had possessed a 
vastly greater diplomatic instinct than he did, coupled 
with an unscrupulous mendacity which he certainly had 
not, he would have found it hard to persuade the Cardinal 
against his will ; but Saracinesca was, of all men, a man 
violent in action and averse to reflection before or after the 
fact. That he should ultimately be revenged upon Del 
Ferice and Donna Tullia for the part they had lately 
played, was a matter which it never entered his head to 

1 A 


418 


SARACINESCA. 


doubt; but when he endeavoured to find means which 
should persuade the Cardinal to assist him, he seemed 
fenced in on all sides by impossibilities. One thing only 
helped him — namely, the conviction that if the statesman 
could be induced to examine Del Fence’s conduct seri- 
ously, the latter would prove to be not only an enemy to 
the State, but a bitter enemy to the Cardinal himself. 

The more Saracinesca thought of the matter, the more 
convinced he was that he should go boldly to the Car- 
dinal and state his belief that Del Ferice was a danger- 
ous traitor, who ought to be summarily dealt with. If 
the Cardinal argued the case, the Prince would asseverate, 
after his manner, and some sort of result was sure to 
follow. As he thus determined upon his course, his 
doubts seemed to vanish, as they generally do in the 
mind of a strong man, when action becomes imminent, 
and the confidence the old man had exhibited to his son 
very soon became genuine. It was almost intolerable to 
have to wait so long, however, before doing anything. 
Giovanni and he had decided to allow Del Fence’s mar- 
riage to take place before producing the explosion, in 
order the more certainly to strike both the offenders ; 
now it seemed best to strike at once. Supposing, he 
argued with himself, that Donna Tullia and her husband 
chose to leave Pome for Paris the day after their wed- 
ding, half the triumph would be lost; for half the tri- 
umph was to consist in Del Fence’s being imprisoned 
for a spy in Pome, whereas if he once crossed the fron- 
tier, he could at most be forbidden to return, which 
would be but a small satisfaction to Saracinesca, or to 
Giovanni. 

A week passed by, and the gaiety of Carnival was 
again at its height ; and again a week elapsed, and Lent 
was come. Saracinesca went everywhere and saw every- 
body as usual, and then after Ash- Wednesday he occa- 
sionally showed himself at some of those quiet evening 
receptions which his son so much detested. But he 
was restless and discontented. De longed to begin the 


SARACmESCA. 


419 


fight, and could not sleep for thinking of it. Like Gio- 
vanni, he was strong and revengeful ; but Giovanni had 
from his mother a certain slowness of temperament, 
which often deterred him from action just long enough 
to give him time for reflection, whereas the father, when 
roused, and he was roused easily, loved to strike at once. 
It chanced one evening, in a great house, that Saracinesca 
came upon the Cardinal standing alone in an outer room. 
He was on his way into the reception ; but he had gtopped, 
attracted by a beautiful crystal cup of old workman- 
ship, which stood, among other objects of the kind, 
upon a marble table in one of the drawing-rooms through 
which he had to pass. The cup itself, of deeply carved 
rock crystal, was set in chiselled silver, and if not the 
work of Cellini himself, must have been made by one 
of his pupils. Saracinesca stopped by the great man’s 
side. 

“ Good evening, Eminence,” he said. 

“ Good evening, Prince,” returned the Cardinal, who 
recognised Saracinesca’s voice without looking up. “ Have 
you ever seen this marvellous piece of work ? I have been 
admiring it for a quarter of an hour.” He loved all 
objects of the kind, and understood them with rare 
knowledge. 

“It is indeed exceedingly beautiful,” answered Saracin- 
esca, who longed to take advantage of the opportunity of 
speaking to Cardinal Antonelli upon the subject nearest 
to his heart. 

“ Yes — yes,” returned the Cardinal rather vaguely, and 
made as though he would go on. He saw from Saracin- 
esca’s commonplace praise, that he knew nothing of the 
subject. The old Prince saw his opportunity slipping 
from him, and lost his head. He did not recollect that 
he could see the Cardinal alone whenever he pleased, by 
merely asking for an interview. Fate had thrust the 
Cardinal in his path, and fate was responsible. 

“ If your Eminence will allow me, I would like a 
word with you,” he said suddenly. 


420 


SARACINESCA. 


“As many as you please/’ answered the statesman, 
blandly. “ Let us sit down in that corner — no one will 
disturb us for a while.” 

He seemed unusually affable, as he sat himself down 
by Saracinesca’s side, gathering the skirt of his scarlet 
mantle across his knee, and folding his delicate hands 
together in an attitude of restful attention. 

“You know, I daresay, a certain Del Ferice, Emi- 
nence ? ” began the Prince. 

“ Very well — the deus ex machind who has appeared to 
carry off Donna Tullia Mayer. Yes, I know him.” 

“ Precisely, and they will match very well together ; 
the world cannot help applauding the union of the flesh 
and the devil.” 

The Cardinal smiled. 

“The metaphor is apt,” he said; “but what about 
them ? ” 

“I will tell you in two words,” replied Saracinesca. 
“ Del Ferice is a scoundrel of the first water ” 

“A jewel among scoundrels,” interrupted the Cardinal, 
“for being a scoundrel he is yet harmless — a stage vil- 
lain.” 

“ I believe your Eminence is deceived in him.” 

“That may easily be,” answered the statesman. “I 
am much more often deceived than people imagine.” 
He spoke very mildly, but his small black eyes turned 
keenly upon Saracinesca. “ What has he been doing ? ” 
he asked, after a short pause. 

“ He has been trying to do a great deal of harm to my 
son and to my son’s wife. I suspect him strongly of 
doing harm to you.” 

Whether Saracinesca was strictly honest in saying 
“ you ” to the Cardinal, when he meant the whole State 
as represented by the prime minister, is a matter not 
easily decided. There is a Latin saying, to the effect 
that a man who is feared by many should himself fear 
many, and the saying is true. The Cardinal was per- 
sonally a brave man ; but he knew his danger, and the 


SARACINESCA. 421 

memory of the murdered Rossi was fresh in his mind. 
Nevertheless, he smiled blandly as he answered — 

“ That is rather vague, my friend. How is he doing 
me harm, if I may ask ? ” 

“I argue in this way,” returned Saracinesca, thus 
pressed. “ The fellow found a most ingenious way of at- 
tacking my son — he searched the whole country till he 
found that a man called Giovanni Saracinesca had been 
married some time ago in Aquila. He copied the certifi- 
cates, and produced them as pretended proof that my son 
was already married. If I had not found the man my- 
self, there would have been trouble. Now besides this, 
Del Ferice is known to hold Liberal views ■” 

“Of the feeblest kind,” interrupted the statesman, 
who nevertheless became very grave. 

“Those he exhibits are of the feeblest kind, and he 
takes no trouble to hide them. But a fellow so ingenious 
as to imagine the scheme he practised against us is not a 
fool.” 

“I understand, my good friend,” said the Cardinal. 
“You have been injured by this fellow, and you would 
like me to revenge the injury by locking him up. Is 
that it ? ” 

“Precisely,” answered Saracinesca, laughing at his 
own simplicity. “ I might as well have said so from the 
first.” 

“Much better. You would make a poor diplomatist, 
Prince. But what in the world shall I gain by revenging 
your wrongs upon that creature ? ” 

“Nothing — unless when you have taken the trouble to 
examine his conduct, you find that he is really dangerous. 
In that case your Eminence will be obliged to look to your 
own safety. If you find him innocent, you will let him 
go.” 

“And in that case, what will you do?” asked the Car- 
dinal with a smile. 

“I will cut his throat,” answered Saracinesca, unmoved. 

“ Murder him ? ” 


422 


SARACINESCA. 


“No — call him out and kill him like a gentleman, 
which is a great deal better than he deserves.” 

“I have no doubt you would,” said the Cardinal, 
gravely. “ I think your proposition reasonable, however. 
If this man is really dangerous, I will look to him myself. 
But I must really beg you not to do anything rash. I 
have determined that this duelling shall stop, and I warn 
you that neither you nor any one else will escape impris- 
onment if you are involved in any more of these per- 
sonal encounters.” 

Saracinesca suppressed a smile at the Cardinal’s threat; 
but he perceived that he had gained his point, and was 
pleased accordingly. He had, he felt sure, sown in the 
statesman’s mind a germ of suspicion which would before 
long bring forth fruit. In those days danger was plentiful, 
and people could not afford to overlook it, no matter in 
what form it presented itself, least of all such people as the 
Cardinal himself, who, while sustaining an unequal com- 
bat against superior forces outside the State, felt that his 
every step was encompassed by perils from within. That 
he had long despised Del Ferice as an idle chatterer did 
not prevent him from understanding that he might have 
been deceived, as Saracinesca suggested. He had caused 
Ugo to be watched, it is true, but only from time to time, 
and by men whose only duty was to follow him and to 
see whether he frequented suspicious society. The little 
nest of talkers at Gouache’s studio in the Via San Basilio 
was soon discovered, and proved to be harmless enough. 
Del Ferice was then allowed to go on his way unobserved. 
But the half-dozen words in which Saracinesca had de- 
scribed Ugo’s scheme for hindering Giovanni’s marriage 
had set the Cardinal thinking, and the Cardinal seldom 
wasted time in thinking in vain. His interview with 
Saracinesca ended very soon, and the Prince and the 
statesman entered the crowded drawing-room and mixed 
in the throng. It was long before they met again in 
private. 

The Cardinal on the following day gave orders that Del 


SAEAC1NESCA. 


423 


Fence’s letters were to be stopped — by no means an un- 
common proceeding in those times, nor so rare in our own 
day as is supposed. The post-office was then in the hands 
of a private individual so far as all management was con- 
cerned, and the Cardinal’s word was law. Del Ferice’s 
letters were regularly opened and examined. 

The first thing that was discovered was that they fre- 
quently contained money, generally in the shape of small 
drafts on London signed by a Florentine banker, and that 
the envelopes which contained money never contained any- 
thing else. They were all posted in Florence. With re- 
gard to his letters, they appeared to be very innocent 
communications from all sorts of people, rarely referring to 
politics, and then only in the most general terms. If Del 
Ferice had expected to have his correspondence examined, 
he could not have arranged matters better for his own 
safety. To trace the drafts to the person who sent them 
was not an easy business ; it was impossible to introduce 
a spy into the banking-house in Florence, and among the 
many drafts daily bought and sold, it was almost impos- 
sible to identify, without the aid of the banker’s books, 
the person who chanced to buy any particular one. The 
addresses were, it is true, uniformly written by the same 
hand ; but the writing was in no way peculiar, and was 
certainly not that of any prominent person whose auto- 
graph the Cardinal possessed. 

The next step was to get possession of some letter written 
by Del Ferice himself, and, if possible, to intercept every- 
thing he wrote. But although the letters containing the 
drafts were regularly opened, and, after having been 
examined and sealed again, were regularly transmitted 
through the post-office to Ugo’s address, the expert persons 
set to catch the letters he himself wrote were obliged to 
own, after three weeks’ careful watching, that he never 
seemed to write any letters at all, and that he certainly 
never posted any. They acknowledged their failure to 
the Cardinal with timid anxiety, expecting to be repri- 
manded for their carelessness. But the Cardinal merely 


424 


SARACINESCA. 


told them not to relax their attention, and dismissed them 
with a bland smile. He knew, now, that he was on the 
track of mischief ; for a man who never writes any letters 
at all, while he receives many, might reasonably be sus- 
pected of having a secret post-office of his own. For some 
days Del Ferice’s movements were narrowly watched, but 
with no result whatever. Then the Cardinal sent for the 
police register of the district where Del Ferice lived, and 
in which the name, nationality, and residence of every 
individual in the “ Rione ” or quarter were carefully in- 
scribed, as they still are. 

Running his eye down the list, the Cardinal came 
upon the name of “Temistocle Fattorusso, of Naples, 
servant to Ugo dei Conti del Ferice :” an idea struck 
him. 

“ His servant is a Neapolitan,” he reflected. “ He 
probably sends his letters by way of Naples.” 

Accordingly Temistocle was watched instead of his 
master. It was found that he frequented the society of 
other Neapolitans, and especially that he was in the habit 
of going from time to time to the Ripa G-rande, the port 
of the Tiber, where he seemed to have numerous acquaint- 
ances among the Neapolitan boatmen who constantly 
came up the coast in their “martingane” — heavy, sea- 
going, lateen-rigged vessels, bringing cargoes of oranges 
and lemons to the Roman market. The mystery was 
now solved. One day Temistocle was actually seen giving 
a letter into the hands of a huge fellow in a red woollen 
•cap. The sbirro who saw him do it marked the sailor and 
his vessel, and never lost sight of him till he hoisted his 
jib and floated away down stream. Then the spy took 
horse and galloped down to Fiumicino, where he waited 
for the little vessel, boarded her from a boat, escorted by 
a couple of gendarmes, and had no difficulty in taking 
the letter from the terrified seaman, who was glad enough 
to escape without detention. During the next fortnight 
several letters were stopped in this way, carried by dif- 
ferent sailors, and the whole correspondence went straight 


SARACINESCA. 


425 


to the Cardinal. Ifc was not often that he troubled him- 
self to play the detective in person, but when he did so, 
he was not easily baffled. And now he observed that 
about a week after the interception of the first letter the 
small drafts which used to come so frequently to Del 
Ferice’s address from Florence suddenly ceased, proving 
beyond a doubt that each letter was paid for according 
to its value so soon as it was received. 

With regard to the contents of these epistles little 
need be said. So sure was Del Ferice of his means of 
transmission that he did not even use a cipher, though 
he, of course, never signed any of his writings. The 
matter was invariably a detailed chronicle of Roman 
sayings and doings, a record as minute as Del Ferice 
could make it, of everything that took place, and even the 
Cardinal himself was astonished at the accuracy of the 
information thus conveyed. His own appearances in 
public — the names of those with whom he talked — even 
fragments of his conversation — were given with annoying 
exactness. The statesman learned with infinite disgust 
that he had for some time past been subjected to a system 
of espionage at least as complete as any of his own inven- 
tion ; and, what was still more annoying to his vanity, 
the spy was the man of all others whom he had most 
despised, calling him harmless and weak, because he cun- 
ningly affected weakness. Where or how Del Ferice 
procured so much information the Cardinal cared little 
enough, for he determined there and then that he should 
procure no more. That there were other traitors in the 
camp was more than likely, and that they had aided Del 
Ferice with their counsels ; but though by prolonging the 
situation it might be possible to track them down, such 
delay would be valuable to enemies abroad. Moreover, 
if Del Ferice began to find out, as he soon must, that his 
private correspondence was being overhauled at the 
Vatican, he was not a man to hesitate about attempting 
his escape ; and he would certainly not be an easy man 
to catch, if he could once succeed in putting a few milea 


426 


SARACINESCA. 


of Campagna between himself and Rome. There was no 
knowing what disguise he might not find in which to slip 
over the frontier ; and indeed, as he afterwards proved, 
he was well prepared for such an emergency. 

The Cardinal did not hesitate. He had just received 
the fourth letter, and if he waited any longer Del Ferice 
would take alarm, and slip through his fingers. He wrote 
with his own hand a note to the chief of police, ordering 
the immediate arrest of Ugo dei Conti del Ferice, with 
instructions that he should be taken in his own house, 
without any publicity, and conveyed in a private car- 
riage to the Sant’ Uffizio by men in plain clothes. It was 
six o’clock in the evening when he wrote the order, and 
delivered it to his private servant to be taken to its des- 
tination. The man lost no time, and within twenty 
minutes the chief of police was in possession of his 
orders, which he hastened to execute with all possible 
speed. Before seven o’clock two respectable-looking 
citizens were seated in the chief’s own carriage, driving 
rapidly in the direction of Del Fence’s house. In less 
than half an hour the man who had caused so much 
trouble would be safely lodged in the prisons of the Holy 
Office, to be judged for his sins as a political spy. In a 
fortnight he was to have been married to Donna Tullia 
Mayer, — and her trousseau had just arrived from Paris. 

It can hardly be said that the Cardinal’s conduct was 
unjustifiable, though many will say that Del Fence’s secret 
doings were easily defensible on the ground of his patriot- 
ism. Cardinal Antonelli had precisely defined the situa- 
tion in his talk with Anastase Gouache by saying that the 
temporal power was driven to bay. To all appearances 
Europe was at peace, but as a matter of fact the peace was 
but an armed neutrality. An amount of interest was con- 
centrated upon the situation of the Papal States which has 
rarely .been excited by events of much greater apparent 
importance than the occupation of a small principality by 
foreign troops. All Europe was arming. In a few months 
Austria was to sustain one of the most sudd.en and oveis 


SARACINESCA. 


427 


whelming defeats recorded in military history. In a few 
years the greatest military power in the world was to be 
overtaken by an even more appalling disaster. And these 
events, then close at hand, were to deal the death-blow to 
papal independence. The papacy was driven to bay, and 
those to whom the last defence was confided were certainly 
justified in employing every means in their power for 
strengthening their position. That Rome herself was 
riddled with rotten conspiracies, and turned into a hunt- 
ing-ground for political spies, while the support she re- 
ceived from Louis Napoleon had been already partially 
withdrawn, proves only how hard was the task of that 
man who, against such odds, maintained so gallant a fight. 
It is no wonder that he hunted down spies, and signed 
orders forcing suspicious characters to leave the city at a 
day’s notice ; for the city was practically in a state of 
siege, and any relaxation of the iron discipline by which 
the great Cardinal governed would at any moment in those 
twenty years have proved disastrous. He was hated and 
feared; more than once he was in imminent danger of his 
life, but he did his duty in his post. Had his authority 
fallen, it is impossible to say what evil might have ensued 
to the city and its inhabitants — evils vastly more to be 
feared than the entrance of an orderly Italian army through 
the Porta Pia. For the recollections of Count Rossi’s 
murder, and of the short and lawless Republic of 1848, 
were fresh in the minds of the people, and before they had 
faded there were dangerous rumours of a rising even less 
truly Republican in theory, and far more fatal in the prac- 
tical social anarchy which must have resulted from its 
success. Giuseppe Mazzini had survived his arch-enemy, 
the great Cavour, and his influence was incalculable. 

But my business is not to write the history of those 
uncertain days, though no one who considers the social 
life of Rome, either then or now, can afford to overlook 
the influence of political events upon the everyday doings 
of men and women. We must follow the private carriage 
containing the two respectable citizens who were on their 
way to Del Ferice’s house. 


428 


SAKACINESCA. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

Xow it chanced that Del Perice was not at home at the 
hour when the carriage containing the detectives drew up 
at his door. Indeed he was rarely to be found at that 
time, for when he was not engaged elsewhere, he dined 
with Donna Tullia and her old countess, accompanying 
them afterwards to any of the quiet Lenten receptions to 
which they desired to go. Temistocle was also out, for it 
was his hour for supper, a meal which he generally ate in 
a small osteria opposite his master’s lodging. There he 
sat now, finishing his dish of beans and oil, and debating 
whether he should indulge himself in another mezza fogli- 
etta of his favourite white wine. He was installed upon 
the wooden bench against the wall, behind the narrow 
table on which was spread a dirty napkin with the remains 
of his unctuous meal. The light from the solitary oil- 
lamp that hung from the black ceiling was not brilliant, 
and he could see well enough through the panes of the 
glass door that the carriage which had just stopped on 
the opposite side of the street was not a cab. Suspecting 
that some one had called at that unusual hour in search 
of his master, he rose from his seat and went out. 

He stood looking at the carriage. It did not please 
him. It had that peculiar look which used to mark the 
equipages of the Vatican; and which to this day distin- 
guishes them from all others in the eyes of a born 
Roman. The vehicle was of rather antiquated shape, 
the horses were black, the coachman wore a plain black 
coat, with a somewhat old-fashioned hat; withal, the 
turnout was respectable enough, and well kept. But it 
did not please Temistocle. Drawing his hat over his 
eyes, he passed behind it, and having ascertained that 
the occupants, if there had been any, had already en- 
tered the house, he himself went in. The narrow stair- 
case was dimly lighted by small oil-lamps. Temistocle 


SARACINESCA. 


429 


ascended the steps on tiptoe, for he could already hear 
the men ringing the bell, and talking together in a low 
voice. The Neapolitan crept nearer. Again and again 
the bell was rung, and the men began to grow impatient. 

“ He has escaped,” said one angrily. 

“ Perhaps — or he has gone out to dinner — much more 
likely.” 

“ We had better go away and come later,” suggested 
the first. 

“He is sure to come home. We Jiad better wait. The 
orders are to take him in his lodgings.” 

“We might go into the osteria opposite and drink a 
foglietta .” 

“No,” said the other, who seemed to be the one in 
authority. “ We must wait here, if we wait till midnight. 
Those are the orders.” 

The second detective grumbled something not clearly 
audible, and silence ensued. But Temistocle had heard 
quite enough. He was a quick-witted fellow, as has been 
seen, much more anxious for his own interests than for his 
master’s, though he had hitherto found it easy to consult 
both. Indeed, in a certain way he was faithful to Del 
Ferice, and admired him as a soldier admires his general. 
The resolution he now formed did honour to his loyalty to 
Ugo and to his thievish instincts. He determined to save 
his master if he could, and to rob him at his leisure after- 
wards. If Del Ferice failed to escape, he would probably 
reward Temistocle for having done his best to help him ; 
if, on the other hand, he got away, Temistocle had the key 
of his lodgings, and would help himself. But there was 
one difficulty in the way. Del Ferice was in evening dress 
at the house of Donna Tullia. In such a costume he 
would have no chance of passing the gates, which in those 
days were closed and guarded all night. Del Ferice was a 
cautious man, and, like many another in those days, kept 
in his rooms a couple of disguises which might serve if he 
was hard pressed. His ready money he always carried 
with him, because he frequently went into the club before 


430 


SARACINESCA. 


coming home, and played a game qf ecarte, in which he 
was usually lucky. The question was how to enter the 
lodgings, to get possession of the necessary clothes, and 
to go out again, without exciting the suspicions of the 
detectives. 

Temistocle’s mind was soon made up. He crept softly 
down the stairs, so as not to appear to have been too near, 
and then, making as much noise as he could, ascended 
boldly, drawing the key of the lodgings from his pocket as 
he reached the landing where the two men stood under the 
little oil-lamp. 

“ Buona sera , sigyiori ,” he said, politely, thrusting the 
key into the lock without hesitation. “ Did you wish to 
see the Conte del Ferice ? ” 

“Yes,” answered the elder man, affecting an urbane 
manner. “ Is the Count at home ? ” 

“I do not think so,” returned the Neapolitan. “But 
I will see. Come in, gentlemen. He will not be long — 
sempre verso quest’’ ora — he always comes home about this 
time.” 

“ Thank you,” said the detective. “If you will allow 
us to wait ” 

“ Altro — what ? Should I leave the padrone’s friends 
on the stairs ? Come in, gentlemen — sit down. It is 
dark. I will light the lamp.” And striking a match, 
Temistocle lit a couple of candles and placed them upon 
the table of the small sitting-room The two men sat 
down, holding their hats upon their knees. 

“If you will excuse me,” said Temistocle, “I will go and 
make the signore’s coffee. He dines at the restaurant, and 
always comes home for his coffee. Perhaps the signori will 
also take a cup ? It is the same to make three as one.” 

But the men thanked Temistocle, and said they wanted 
none, which was just as well, since Temistocle had no idea 
of giving them any. He retired, however, to the small 
kitchen which belongs to every Boman lodging, and made 
a great clattering with the coffee-pot. Presently he slipped 
into Del Fence’s bedroom, and extracted from a dark corner 


SARAC1NESCA. 


481 


a shabby black bag, which he took back with him into the 
kitchen. From the kitchen window ran the usual iron wire 
to the well in the small court, bearing an iron traveller with 
a rope for drawing water. Temistocle, clattering loudly, 
hooked the bag to the traveller and let it run down noisily ; 
then he tied the rope and went out. He had carefully 
closed the door of the sitting-room, but he had been careful 
to leave the door which opened upon the stairs unlatched. 
He crept noiselessly out, and leaving the door still open, 
rushed down-stairs, turned into the little court, unhooked 
his bag from the rope, and taking it in his hand, passed 
quietly out into the street. The coachman was dozing upon 
the box of the carriage which still waited before the door, 
and would not have noticed Temistocle had he been awake. 
In a moment more the Neapolitan was beyond pursuit. In 
the Piazza di Spagna he hailed a cab and drove rapidly to 
Donna Tullia’s house, where he paid the man and sent him 
away. The servants knew him well enough, for scarcely 
a day passed without his bringing some note or message 
from his master to Madame Mayer. He sent in to say that 
he must speak to his master on business. Del Ferice came 
out hastily in considerable agitation, which was by no 
means diminished by the sight of the well-known shabby 
black bag. 

Temistocle glanced round the hall to see that they were 
alone. 

“The forza — the police,” he whispered, “are in the 
house, Eccellenza. Here is the bag. Save yourself, for 
the love of heaven ! ” 

Del Ferice turned ghastly pale, and his face twitched 
nervously. 

“ But ” he began, and then staggering back leaned 

against the wall. 

“ Quick — fly ! 99 urged Temistocle, shaking him roughly 
by the arm. “ It is the Holy Office — you have time. I 
told them you would be back, and they are waiting quietly 
— they will wait all night. Here is your overcoat,” he 
added, almost forcing his master into the garment — “ and 


482 


SAKACINESCA. 


your hat — here ! Come along, there is no time to lose. 
I will take you to a place where you can dress.” 

Del Ferice submitted almost blindly. By especial 
good fortune the footman did not come out into the hall. 
Donna Tullia and her guests had finished dinner, and the 
servants had retired to theirs ; indeed the footman had 
complained to Temistocle of being called away from his 
meal to open the door. The Neapolitan pushed his master 
out upon the stairs, urging him to use all speed. As the 
two men hurried along the dark street they conversed in 
low tones. Del Ferice was trembling in every joint. 

“ But Donna Tullia,” he almost whined. “ I cannot 
leave her so — she must know ” 

“ Save your own skin from the Holy Office, master,” 
answered Temistocle, dragging him along as fast as he 
could. “ I will go back and tell your lady, never fear. 
She will leave Borne to-morrow. Of course you will go 
* to Naples. She will follow you. She will be there before 
you.” 

Del Ferice mumbled an unintelligible answer. His 
teeth were chattering with cold and fear ; but as he began 
to realise his extreme peril, terror lent wings to his heels, 
and he almost outstripped the nimble Temistocle in the 
race for safety. They reached at last the ruined part 
of the city near the Porta Maggiore, and in the shadow 
of the deep archway where the road branches to the 
right tow r ards Santa Croce in Gerusalemme, Temistocle 
halted. 

“Here,” he said, shortly. Del Ferice said never a 
word, but began to undress himself in the dark. It was 
a gloomy and lowering night, the roads were muddy, and 
from time to time a few drops of cold rain fell silently, 
portending a coming storm. In a few moments the trans- 
formation was complete, and Del Ferice stood by his ser- 
vant’s side in the shabby brown cowl and rope-girdle of 
a Capuchin monk. 

“Now comes the hard part,” said Temistocle, produc- 
ing a razor and a pair of scissors from the bottom of the 


SARACINESCA. 433 

bag. Bel Ferice had too often contemplated the possi- 
bility of flight to have omitted so important a detail. 

“ You cannot see — you will cut my throat,” he mur- 
mured plaintively. 

But the fellow was equal to the emergency. Retiring 
deeper into the recess of the arch, he lit a cigar, and hold- 
ing it between his teeth, puffed violently at it, producing a 
feeble light by which he could just see his master’s face. 
He was in the habit of shaving him, and had no difficulty 
in removing the fair moustache from his upper lip. Then, 
making him hold his head down, and puffing harder than 
ever, he cropped his thin hair, and managed to make a 
tolerably respectable tonsure. But the whole operation 
had consumed half an hour at the least, and Del Ferice 
was trembling still. Temistocle thrust the clothes into 
his bag. 

“My watch!” objected the unfortunate man, “and 
my pearl studs — give them to me — what ? You villain ! 
you thief ! you ” 

“ No chiacchiere, no talk, padrone ,” interrupted Temis- 
tocle, snapping the lock of the bag. “If you chance to 
be searched, it would ill become a mendicant friar to be 
carrying gold watches and pearl studs. I will give them 
to Donna Tullia this very evening. You have money — 
you can say that you are taking that to your convent.” 

“ Swear to give the watch to Donna Tullia,” said Del 
Ferice. Whereupon Temistocle swore a terrible oath, 
which he did not fail to break, of course. But his mas- 
ter had to be satisfied, and when all was completed the 
two parted company. 

“ I will ask Donna Tullia to take me to Naples on her 
passport,” said the Neapolitan. 

“Take care of my things, Temistocle. Burn all the 
papers if you can — though I suppose the sbirri have got 
them by this time. Bring my clothes — if you steal any- 
thing, remember there are knives in Borne, and I know 
where to write to have them used.” Whereat Temistocle 
broke into a torrent of protestations. How could his 
2 B 


434 


SARACIKESCA. 


master think that, after saving him at such risk, his 
faithful servant would plunder him ? 

“ Well,” said Del Ferice, thoughtfully, “you are a great 
scoundrel, you know. But you have saved me, as you say. 
There is a scudo for you.” 

Temistocle never refused anything. He took the coin, 
kissed his master’s hand as a final exhibition of servility, 
and turned back towards the city without another word. 
Del Ferice shuddered, and drew his heavy cowl over his 
head as he began to walk quickly towards the Porta Mag- 
giore. Then he took the inside road, skirting the walls 
through the mud to the Porta San Lorenzo. He was per- 
fectly safe in his disguise. He had dined abundantly, he 
had money in his pocket, and he had escaped the clutches 
of the Holy Office. A barefooted friar might walk for 
days unchallenged through the Roman Campagna and the 
neighbouring hills, and it was not far to the south-eastern 
frontier. He did not know the way beyond Tivoli, but he 
could inquire without exciting the least suspicion. There 
are few disguises more complete than the garb of a Capu- 
chin monk, and Del Ferice had long contemplated playing 
the part, for it was one which eminently suited him. His 
face, much thinner now than formerly, was yet naturally 
round, and without his moustache would certainly pass for 
a harmless clerical visage. He had received an excellent 
education, and knew vastly more Latin than the majority 
of mendicant monks. As a good Roman he was well ac- 
quainted with every convent in the city, and knew the 
names of all the chief dignitaries of the Capuchin order. 
When a lad he had frequently served at Mass, and was 
acquainted with most of the ordinary details of monastic 
life. The worst that could happen to him might be to be 
called upon in the course of his travels to hear the dying 
confession of some poor wretch who had been stabbed 
after a game of mora. His case was altogether not so bad 
as might seem, considering the far greater evils he had 
escaped. 

At the Porta San Lorenzo the gates were closed as 


SAKACINESCA. 


435 


usual, but the dozing watchman let Del Ferice out of the 
small door without remark. Any one might leave the 
city, though it required a pass to gain admittance during 
the night. The heavily-ironed oak clanged behind the 
fugitive, and he breathed more freely as he stepped upon 
the road to Tivoli. In an hour he had crossed the Ponte 
Mammolo, shuddering as he looked down through the deep 
gloom at the white foam of the Teverone, swollen with 
the winter rains. But the fear of the Holy Office was 
behind him, and he hurried on his lonely way, walking 
painfully in the sandals he had been obliged to put on 
to complete his disguise, sinking occasionally ankle-deep 
in mud, and then trudging over a long stretch of broken 
stones where the road had been mended ; but not notic- 
ing nor caring for pain and fatigue, while he felt that 
every minute took him nearer to the frontier hills where 
he wmuld be safe from pursuit. And so he toiled on, till 
he smelled the fetid air of the sulphur springs full four- 
teen miles from Borne ; and at last, as the road began to 
rise towards Hadrian’s Villa, he sat down upon a stone 
by the wayside to rest a little. He had walked five hours 
through the darkness, seeing but a few yards of the broad 
road before him as he went. He was weary and footsore, 
and the night was growing wilder with gathering wind 
and rain as the storm swept down the mountains and 
through the deep gorge of Tivoli on its way to the deso- 
late black Campagna. He felt that if he did not die of 
exposure he was safe, and to a man in his condition bad 
weather is the least of evils. 

His reflections were not sweet. Five hours earlier he 
had been dressed as a fine gentleman should be, seated at 
a luxurious table in the company of a handsome and 
amusing woman who was to be his wife. He could still 
almost taste the delicate chaud froid , the tender woodcock, 
the dry champagne ; he could still almost hear Donna 
Tullia’s last noisy sally ringing in his ears — and behold, 
he was now sitting by the roadside in the rain, in the 
wretched garb of a begging monk, five hours’ journey from 


436 


SARACINESCA. 


Rome. He had left his affianced bride without a word of 
warning, had abandoned all his possessions to Temistocle 
— that scoundrelly thief Temistocle ! — and he was utterly 
alone. 

But as he rested himself, drawing his monk’s hood 
closely over his head and trying to warm his freezing 
feet with the skirts of his rough brown frock, he reflected 
that if he ever got safely across the frontier he would be 
treated as a patriot, as a man who had suffered for the 
cause, and certainly as a man who deserved to be rewarded. 
He reflected that Donna Tullia was a woman who had a 
theatrical taste for romance, and that his present position 
was in theory highly romantic, however uncomfortable it 
might be in the practice. When he was safe his story 
would be told in the newspapers, and he would himself 
take care that it was made interesting. Donna Tullia 
would read it, would be fascinated by the tale of his 
sufferings, and would follow him. His marriage with her 
would then add immense importance to his own position. 
He would play his cards well, and with her wealth at his 
disposal he might aspire to any distinction he coveted. 
He only wished the situation could have been prolonged 
for three weeks, till he was actually married. Meanwhile 
he must take courage and push on, beyond the reach of 
pursuit. If once he could gain Subiaco, he could be over 
the frontier in twelve hours. From Tivoli there were 
vetture up the valley, cheap conveyances for the country 
jDeople, in which a barefooted friar could travel unnoticed. 
He knew that he must cross the boundary by Trevi and 
the Serra di Sant’ Antonio. He would inquire the way 
from Subiaco. 

While Del Ferice was thus making his way across the 
Campagna, Temistocle was taking measures for his own 
advantage and safety. He had the bag with his master’s 
clothes, the valuable watch and chain, and the pearl studs. 
He had also the key to Del Fence’s lodgings, of which 
he promised himself to make some use, as soon as he 
should be sure that the detectives had left the house. 


SARACINESCA. 


437 


In the first place he made up his mind to leave Donna 
Tullia in ignorance of his master’s sudden departure. 
There was nothing to be gained by telling her the news, 
for she would probably in her rash way go to Del Fence’s 
house herself, as she had done once before, and on finding 
he was actually gone she would take charge of his effects, 
whereby Temistocle would be the loser. As he walked 
briskly away from the ruinous district near the Porta 
Maggiore, and began to see the lights of the city gleam- 
ing before him, his courage rose in his breast. He remem- 
bered how easily he had eluded the detectives an hour 
and a half before, and he determined to cheat them 
again. 

But he had reckoned unwisely. Before he had been 
gone ten minutes the two men suspected, from the pro- 
longed silence, that something was wrong, and after search- 
ing the lodging perceived that the polite servant who had 
offered them coffee had left the house without taking 
leave. One of the two immediately drove to the house 
of his chief and asked for instructions. The order to 
arrest the servant if he appeared again came back at once. 
The consequence was that when Temistocle boldly opened 
the door with a ready framed excuse for his absence, he 
was suddenly pinioned by four strong arms, dragged into 
the sitting-room, and told to hold his tongue in the name 
of the law. And that is the last that was heard of Temis- 
tocle for some time. But when the day dawned the men 
knew that Del Ferice had escaped them. 

The affair had not been well managed. The Cardinal 
was a good detective, but a bad policeman. In his haste 
he had made the mistake of ordering Del Ferice to be 
arrested instantly and in his lodgings. Had the statesman 
simply told the chief of police to secure Ugo as soon as 
possible without any scandal, he could not have escaped. 
But the officer interpreted the Cardinal’s note to mean that 
Del Ferice was actually at his lodgings when the order was 
given. The Cardinal was supposed to be omniscient by 
his subordinates, and no one ever thought of giving any 


438 


SARACINESCA. 


interpretation not perfectly literal to his commands. Of 
course the Cardinal was at once informed, and telegrams 
and mounted detectives were dispatched in all directions. 
But Del Ferice’s disguise w r as good, and when just after 
sunrise a gendarme galloped into Tivoli, he did not suspect 
that the travel-stained and paleffaced friar, who stood tell- 
ing his beads before the shrine just outside the Roman 
gate, was the political delinquent whom he was sent to 
overtake. 

Donna Tullia spent an anxious night. She sent down to 
Del Ferice’s lodgings, as Temistocle had anticipated, and the 
servant brought back word that he had not seen the Neapol- 
itan, and that the house was held in possession by strangers, 
who refused him admittance. Madame Mayer understood 
well enough what had happened, and began to tremble for 
herself. Indeed she began to think of packing together her 
own valuables, in case she should be ordered to leave Rome, 
for she did not doubt that the Holy Office was in pursuit 
of Del Ferice, in consequence of some discovery relating to 
her little club of malcontents. She trembled for Ugo with 
an anxiety more genuine than any feeling of hers had been 
for many a day, not knowing whether he had escaped or 
not. But on the following evening she was partially reas- 
sured by hearing from Yaldarno that the police had offered 
a large reward for Del Ferice’s apprehension. Yaldarno 
declared, his intention of leaving Rome at once. His life, 
he said, was not safe for a moment. That villain Gouache, 
who had turned Zouave, had betrayed them all, and they 
might be lodged in the Sant’ Uffizio any day. As a mat- 
ter of fact, after he discovered how egregiously he had 
been deceived by Del Ferice, the Cardinal grew more sus- 
picious, and his emissaries were more busy than they had 
been before. But Yaldarno had never manifested enough 
wisdom, nor enough folly, to make him a cause of anxiety 
to the Prime Minister. Nevertheless he actually left 
Rome and spent a long time in Paris before he was in- 
duced' to believe that he might safely return to his home. 

Roman society was shaken to its foundations by the 


SARACINESCA. 


439 


news of the attempted arrest, and Donna Tullia found 
some slight compensation in becoming for a time the 
centre of interest. She felt, indeed, great anxiety for 
the man she was engaged to marry; but for the first time 
in her life she felt also that she was living in an element 
of real romance, of which she had long dreamed, but of 
which she had never found the smallest realisation. So- 
ciety saw, and speculated, and gossiped, after its fashion ; 
but its gossip was more subdued than of yore, for men 
began to ask who was safe, since the harmless Del Ferice 
had been proscribed. Old Saracinesca said little. He 
would have gone to see the Cardinal and to offer him his 
congratulations, since it would not be decent to offer 
his thanks ; but the Cardinal was not in a position to be 
congratulated. If he had caught Del Ferice he would 
have thanked the Prince instead of waiting for any ex- 
pressions of gratitude ; but he did not catch Del Ferice, 
for certain very good reasons which will appear in the 
last scene of this comedy. 

Three days after Ugo’s disappearance, the old Prince 
got into his carriage and drove out to Saracinesca. More 
than a month had elapsed since the marriage, and he felt 
that he must see his son, even at the risk of interrupt- 
ing the honeymoon. On the whole, he felt that his re- 
venge had been inadequate. Del Ferice had escaped the 
Holy Office, no one knew how ; and Donna Tullia, instead 
of being profoundly humiliated, as she would have been 
had Del Ferice been tried as a common spy, was become 
a centre of attraction and interest, because her affianced 
husband had for some unknown cause incurred the dis- 
pleasure of the great Cardinal, almost on the eve of her 
marriage — a state of things significant as regards the tone 
of Roman society. Indeed the whole circumstance, which 
was soon bruited about among all classes with the most 
lively adornment and exaggeration, tended greatly tp in- 
crease the fear and hatred which high and low alike 
felt for Cardinal Antonelli — the man who was always ac- 
cused and never heard in his own defence. 


440 


SARACINESCA. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

People wondered that Giovanni and Corona should have 
chosen to retire into the country for their honeymoon, in- 
stead of travelling to France and England, and ending 
their wedding-trip in Switzerland. The hills were so very 
cold at that early season, and besides, they would be ut- 
terly alone. People could not understand why Corona 
did not take advantage of the termination of her widow- 
hood to mix at once with the world, and indemnify herself 
for the year of mourning by a year of unusual gaiety. But 
there were many, on the other hand, who loudly applauded 
the action, which, it was maintained, showed a wise spirit 
of economy, and contrasted very favourably with the ex- 
travagance recently exhibited by young couples who in 
reality had far more cause to be careful of their money. 
Those who held this view belonged to the old, patriarchal 
class, the still flourishing remnant of the last generation, 
who prided themselves upon good management, good 
morals, and ascetic living ; the class of people in whose 
marriage-contracts it was stipulated that the wife was to 
have meat twice a-day, excepting on fast days, a drive — 
the trottata , as it used to be called — daily, and two new 
gowns every year. Even in our times, when most of that 
generation are dead, these clauses are often introduced ; 
in the first half of the century they were universal. A 
little earlier it used to be stipulated that the “meat” was 
not to be capra, goat’s-flesh, which was considered to be 
food fit only for servants. But the patriarchal generation 
were a fine old class in spite of their economy, and they 
loudly aplauded Giovanni’s conduct. 

Xo one, however, understood that the solitude of Sara- 
cinesca was really the greatest luxury the newly-married 
couple could desire. They wanted to be left alone, and they 
got their wish. Xo one had known of the preparations 
Giovanni had made for his wife’s reception, and had any 


SARACINESCA. 


441 


idea of the changes in the castle reached the ears of the 
aforesaid patriarchs, they would probably have changed 
their minds in regard to Giovanni’s economy. The Sara- 
cinesca were not ostentatious, but they spent their money 
royally in their own quiet way, and the interior of the old 
stronghold had undergone a com plete transformation, while 
the ancient grey stones of the outer walls and towers 
frowned as gloomily as ever upon the valley. Vast halls 
had been decorated and furnished in a style suited to the 
antiquity of the fortress, small sunny rooms had been fitted 
up with the more refined luxury which was beginning to 
be appreciated in Italy twenty years ago. A great con- 
servatory had been built out upon the southern battlement. 
The aqueduct had been completed successfully, and foun- 
tains now played in the courts. The old-fashioned fire- 
places had been again put into use, and huge logs burned 
upon huge fire-dogs in the halls, shedding a ruddy glow 
upon the trophies of old armour, the polished floors, and 
the heavy curtains. Quantities of magnificent tapestry, 
some of which had been produced when Corona first 
visited the castle, were now hung upon the stairs and in 
the corridors. The great baldacchino, the canopy which 
Homan princes are privileged to display in their ante- 
chambers, was draped above the quartered arms of Sara- 
cinesca and Astrardente, and the same armorial bearings 
appeared in rich stained glass in the window of the grand 
staircase. The solidity and rare strength of the ancient 
stronghold seemed to grow even more imposing under the 
decorations and improvements of a later age, and for the 
first time Giovanni felt that justice had been done to 
the splendour of his ancestral home. 

Here he and his dark bride dwelt in perfect unity and 
happiness, in the midst of their own lands, surrounded by 
their own people, and wholly devoted to each other. But 
though much of the day was passed in that unceasing con- 
versation and exchange of ideas which seem to belong ex- 
clusively to happily-wedded man and wife, the hours were 
not wholly idle. Daily the two mounted their horses and 


442 


SARACINESCA. 


rode along the level stretch towards Aquaviva till they 
came to the turning from which Corona had first caught 
sight of Saracinesca. Here a broad road was already 
broken out ; the construction was so far advanced that two 
miles at least were already serviceable, the gentle grade 
winding backwards and forwards, crossing and recrossing 
the old bridle-path as it descended to the valley below ; 
and now from the furthest point completed Corona could 
distinguish in the dim distance the great square palace of 
Astrardente crowning the hills above the town. Thither 
the two rode daily, pushing on the work, consulting with 
the engineer they employed, and often looking forward 
to the day when for the first time their carriage should roll 
smoothly down from Saracinesca to Astrardente without 
making the vast detour which the old road followed as it 
skirted the mountain. There was an inexpressible pleasure 
in watching the growth of the work they had so long con- 
templated, in speculating on the advantages they would 
obtain by so uniting their respective villages, and in feeling 
that, being at last one, they were working together for the 
good of their people. For the men who did the work were 
without exception their own peasants, who were unem- 
ployed during the winter time, and who, but for the timely 
occupation provided for them, would have spent the cold 
months in that state of half-starved torpor peculiar to the 
indigent agricultural labourer when he has nothing to do 
— at that bittter season when father and mother and 
shivering little ones watch wistfully the ever-dwindling 
sack of maize, as day by day two or three handfuls are 
ground between the stones of the hand-mill and kneaded 
into a thick unwholesome dough, the only food of the 
poorer peasants in the winter. But now every man who 
could handle pickaxe and bore, and sledge-hammer and 
spade, was out upon the road from dawn to dark, and 
every Saturday night each man took home a silver scudo 
in his pocket; and where people are sober and do not 
drink their wages, a silver scudo goes a long way fur- 
ther than nothing. Yet many a lean and swarthy fel- 


SARACINESCA. 


443 


low there would have felt that he was cheated if besides 
his money he had not carried home daily the remembrance 
of that tall dark lady’s face and kindly eyes and encour- 
aging voice, and they used to watch for the coming of 
the “ gran principessa ” as anxiously as they expected the 
coming of the steward with the money-bags on a Saturday 
evening. Often, too, the wives and daughters of the 
rough workers would bring the men their dinners at noon- 
day, rather than let them carry away their food with them 
in the morning, just for the sake of catching a sight of Cor- 
ona, and of her broad-shouldered manly husband. And the 
men worked with a right good will, for the story had 
gone abroad that for years to come there would be no 
lack of work for willing hands. 

So the days sped, and were not interrupted by any in- 
cident for several weeks. One day Gouache, the artist 
Zouave, called at the castle. He had been quartered at 
Snbiaco with a part of his company, but had not been sent 
on at once to Saracinesca as he had expected. Now, how- 
ever, he had arrived with a small detachment of half-a- 
dozen men, with instructions to watch the pass. There 
was nothing extraordinary in his being sent in that direc- 
tion, for Saracinesca was very near the frontier, and lay 
on one of the direct routes to the Serra di Sant’ Antonio, 
which was the shortest hill-route into the kingdom of 
Naples ; the country around was thought to be particu- 
larly liable to disturbance, and though no one had seen a 
brigand there for some years, the mountain-paths were 
supposed to be infested with robbers. As a matter of 
fact there was a great deal of smuggling carried on 
through the pass, and from time to time some political 
refugee found his way across the frontier at that point. 

Gouache was received very well by Giovanni, and rather 
coldly by Corona, who knew him but slightly. 

“ I congratulate you,” said Giovanni, noticing the stripes 
on the young man’s sleeves ; “ I see that you have risen in 
grade.” 

“Yes. I hold an important command of six men. I 


444 


SARACINESCA. 


spend much time in studying the strategy of Conde and 
Napoleon. By the bye, I am here on a very important 
mission.” 

“ Indeed ! ” 

“ I suppose you give yourselves the luxury of never read- 
ing the papers in this delightful retreat. The day before 
yesterday the Cardinal attempted to arrest our friend Del 
Ferice — have you heard that ? ” 

“No — what — has he escaped?” asked Giovanni and 
Corona in a breath. But their tones were different. 
Giovanni had anticipated the news, and w^as disgusted at 
the idea that the fellow had got off. Corona was merely 
surprised. 

“Yes. Heaven knows how — he has escaped. I am 
here to cut him off if he tries to get to the Serra di Sant’ 
Antonio.” 

Giovanni laughed. 

“ He will scarcely try to come this way — under the very 
walls of my house,” he said, 

“ He may do anything. He is a slippery fellow.” Gou- 
ache proceeded to tell all he knew of the circumstances. 

“ That is very strange,” said Corona, thoughtfully. Then 
after a pause, she added, “We are going to visit our road, 
Monsieur Gouache. Will you not come with us ? My 
husband will give you a horse.” 

Gouache was charmed. He preferred talking to Gio- 
vanni and looking at Corona’s face to returning to his six 
Zouaves, or patrolling the hills in search of Del Ferice. In 
a few minutes the three were mounted, and riding slowly 
along the level stretch towards the works. As they entered 
the new road Giovanni and Corona unconsciously fell into 
conversation, as usual, about what they were doing, and for- 
got their visitor. . Gouache dropped behind, watching the 
pair and admiring them with true artistic appreciation. He 
had a Parisian’s love of luxury and perfect appointments as 
well as an artist’s love of beauty, and his eyes rested with 
unmitigated pleasure on the riders and their horses, losing 
no detail of their dress, their simple English accoutrements, 


SARACINESCA. 


445 


their firm seats and graceful carriage. But at a turn of the 
grade the two riders suddenly slipped from his field of 
vision, and his attention was attracted to the marvellous 
beauty of the landscape, as looking down the valley towards 
Astrardente he saw range on range of purple hills rising in 
a deep perspective, crowned with jagged rocks or sharply 
defined brown villages, ruddy in the lowering sun. He 
stopped his horse and sat motionless, drinking in the love- 
liness before him. So it is that accidents in nature make 
accidents in the lives of men. 

But Giovanni and Corona rode slowly down the gentle 
incline, hardly noticing that Gouache had stopped be- 
hind, and talking of the work. As they again turned a 
curve of the grade Corona, who was on the inside, looked 
up and caught sight of Gouache’s motionless figure at 
the opposite extremity of the gradient they had just de- 
scended. Giovanni looked straight before him, and was 
aware of a pale-faced Capuchin friar who with downcast 
eyes was toiling up the road, seemingly exhausted; a 
particularly weather-stained and dilapidated friar even 
for those wild mountains. 

“ Gouache is studying geography,” remarked Corona. 

“ Another of those Capuccini ! ” exclaimed Giovanni, 
instinctively feeling in his pocket for coppers. Then 
with a sudden movement he seized his wife’s arm. She 
was close to him as they rode slowly along side by side. 

“ Good God ! Corona,” he cried, “ it is Del Ferice ! ” 
Corona looked quickly at the monk. His cowl was raised 
enough to show his features'; but she would, perhaps, 
not have recognised his smooth shaven face had Gio- 
vanni not called her attention to it. 

Del Ferice had recognised them too, and, horror-struck, 
he paused, trembling and uncertain what to do. He had 
taken the wrong turn from the main road below ; unac- 
customed to the dialect of the hills, he had misunder- 
stood the peasant who had told him especially not to 
take the bridle-path if he wished to avoid Saracinesca. 
He stopped, hesitated, and then, pulling his cowl over 


446 


SARACINESCA. 


his face, walked steadily on. Giovanni glanced up and 
saw that Gouache was slowly descending the road, still 
absorbed in contemplating the landscape. 

“Let him take his chance,” muttered Saracinesca. 
“ What should I care ? ” 

“No — no! Save him, Giovanni, — he looks so miser- 
able,” cried Corona, with ready sympathy. She was pale 
with excitement. 

Giovanni looked at her one moment and hesitated, but 
her pleading eyes were not to be refused. 

“ Then gallop back, darling. Tell Gouache it is cold 
in the valley — anything. Make him go back with you 
— I will save him since you wish it.” 

Corona wheeled her horse without a word and cantered 
up the hill again. The monk had continued his slow 
walk, and was now almost at Giovanni’s saddle-bow. 
The latter drew rein, staring hard at the pale features 
under the cowl. 

“ If you go on you are lost,” he said, in low distinct 
tones. “ The Zouaves are waiting for you. Stop, I say ! ” 
he exclaimed, as the monk attempted to pass on. Leap- 
ing to the ground Giovanni seized his arm and held him 
tightly. Then Del Ferice broke down. 

“You will not give me up — for the love of Christ!” 
he whined. “Oh, if you have any pity — let me go — I 
never meant to harm you ” 

“Look here,” said Giovanni. “I would just as soon 
give you up to the Holy Office as not ; but my wife asked 
me to save you ” 

“God bless her! Oh, the saints bless her! God 
render her kindness ! ” blubbered Del Ferice, who, between 
fear and exhaustion, was by this time half idiotic. 

“Silence!” said Giovanni, sternly. “You may thank 
her if you ever have a chance. Come with me quietly. 
I will send one of the workmen round the hill with you. 
You must sleep at Trevi, and then get over the Serra as 
best you can.” He ran his arm through the bridle of his 
horse and walked by his enemy’s side. 


SARACINESCA. 


447 


“ You will not give me up,” moaned the wretched man. 
“ For the love of heaven do not betray me — I have come 
so far — I am so tired.” 

“ The wolves may make a meal of you, for all I care,” 
returned Giovanni. “I will not. I give you my word 
that I will send you safely on, if you will stop this whin- 
ing and behave like a man.” 

At that moment Del Ferice was past taking offence, 
but for many a year afterwards the rough words rankled 
in his heart. Giovanni was brutal for once ; he longed 
to wring the fellow’s neck, or to give him up to Gouache 
and the Zouaves. The tones of Ugo’s voice reminded 
him of injuries not so old as to be yet forgotten. But 
he smothered his wrath and strode on, having promised 
his wife to save the wretch, much against his will. It 
was a quarter of an hour before they reached the works, 
the longest quarter of an hour Del Ferice remembered in 
his whole life. Neither spoke a word. Giovanni hailed 
a sturdy-looking fellow who was breaking stones by the 
roadside. 

“ Get up, Carluccio,” he said. “ This good monk has 
lost his way. You must take him round the mountain, 
above Ponza to Arcinazzo, and show him the road to 
Trevi. It is a long way, but the road is good enough 
after Ponza — it is shorter than to go round by Saracin- 
esca, and the good friar is in a hurry.” 

Carluccio started up with alacrity. He greatly pre- 
ferred roaming about the hills to breaking stones, pro- 
vided he was paid for it. He picked up his torn jacket 
and threw it over one shoulder, setting his battered hat 
jauntily on his thick black curls. 

“ Give us a benediction, padre mio, and let us be off — 
non & mica un passo — it is a good walk to Trevi.” 

Del Ferice hesitated. He hardly knew what to do or 
say, and even if he had wished to speak he was scarpely 
able to control his voice. Giovanni cut the situation 
short by turning on his heel and mounting his horse. A 
moment later he was cantering up the road again, to the 


448 


SARACINESCA. 


considerable astonishment of the labourers, who were ac- 
customed to see him spend at least half an hour in exam- 
ining the work done. But Giovanni was in no humour 
to talk about roads. He had spent a horrible quarter of 
an hour, between his desire to see Del Ferice punished 
and the promise he had given his wife to save him. He 
felt so little sure of himself that he never once looked 
back, lest he should be tempted to send a second man to 
stop the fugitive and deliver him up to justice. He 
ground his teeth together, and his heart was full of bit- 
ter curses as he rode up the hill, hardly daring to reflect 
upon what he had done. That, in the eyes of the law, 
he had wittingly helped a traitor to escape, troubled his 
conscience little. His instinct bade him destroy Del 
Ferice by giving him up, and he would have saved him- 
self a vast deal of trouble if he had followed his impulse. 
But the impulse really arose from a deep-rooted desire 
for revenge, which, having resisted, he regretted bitterly 
— very much as Shakespeare’s murderer complained to 
his companion that the devil was at his elbow bidding 
him not murder the duke. Giovanni spared his enemy 
solely to please his wife, and half-a-dozen words from 
her had produced a result which no consideration of 
mercy or pity could have brought about. 

Corona and Gouache had halted at the top of the road 
to wait for him. By an inperceptible nod, Giovanni in- 
formed his wife that Del Ferice was safe. 

“ I am sorry to have cut short our ride,” he said, coldly. 
“ My wife found it chilly in the valley.” 

Anastase looked curiously at Giovanni’s pale face, and 
wondered whether anything was wrong. Corona herself 
seemed strangely agitated. 

“ Yes,” answered Gouache, with his gentle smile ; “ the 
mountain air is still cold.” 

So the three rode silently back to the castle, and at the 
gate Gouache dismounted and left them, politely declin. 
ing a rather cold invitation to come in. Giovanni and 
Corona went silently up the staircase together, and on 


SARACINESCA. 


449 


into a small apartment which in that cold season they 
had set apart as a sitting-room. When they were alone, 
Corona laid her hands upon Giovanni’s shoulders and 
gazed long into his angry eyes. Then she threw her 
arms round his neck and drew him to her. 

“My beloved,” she cried, proudly, “you are all I 
thought — and more too.” 

“ Do not say that,” answered Giovanni. “I would not 
have lifted a linger to save that hound, but for you.” 

“ Ah, but you did it, dear, all the same,” she said, aud 
kissed him. 

On the following evening, without any warning, old 
Saracinesca arrived, and was warmly greeted. After 
dinner Giovanni told him the story of Del Fence’s escape. 
Thereupon the old gentleman flew into a towering rage, 
swearing and cursing in a most characteristic manner, but 
finally declaring that to arrest spies was the work of spies, 
and that Giovanni had behaved like a gentleman, as of 
course he could not help doing, seeing that he was his 
own son. 

And so the curtain falls upon the first act. Giovanni 
and Corona are happily married. Del Ferice is safe across 
the frontier among his friends in Naples, and Donna 
Tullia is waiting still for news of him, in the last days of 
Lent, in the year 1866. To cariy on the tale from this 
point would be to enter upon a new series of events more 
interesting, perhaps, than those herein detailed, and of 
like importance in the history of the Saracinesca family, 
but forming by their very nature a distinct narrative — a 
second act to the drama, if it may be so called. I am 
content if in the foregoing pages I have so far acquainted 
the reader with those characters which hereafter will play 
more important parts, as to enable him to comprehend the 
story of their subsequent lives, and in some measure to 
judge of their future by their past, regarding them as 
acquaintances, if not sympathetic, yet worthy of some 
attention. 

3 c 


450 


SARACINESCA. 


Especially I ask for indulgence in matters political. I 
am not writing the history of political events, but the 
history of a Roman family during times of great uncer- 
tainty and agitation. If any one says that I have set 
up Del Eerice as a type of the Italian Liberal party, care- 
fully constructing a villain in order to batter him to pieces 
with the artillery of poetic justice, I answer that I have 
done nothing of the kind. Del Eerice is indeed a type, 
but a type of a depraved class which very unjustly repre- 
sented the Liberal party in Rome before 1870, and which, 
among those who witnessed its proceedings, drew upon 
the great political body which demanded the unity of 
Italy an opprobrium that body was very far from deserv- 
ing. The honest and upright Liberals were waiting in 
1866. What they did, they did from their own country, 
and they did it boldly. To no man of intelligence need 
I say that Del Eerice had no more affinity with Massimo 
D’Azeglio, with the great Cavour, with Cavour’s great 
enemy Giuseppe Mazzini, or with Garibaldi, than the 
jackal has with the lion. Del Eerice represented the 
scum which remained after the revolution of 1848 had 
subsided. He was one of those men who were used and 
despised by their betters, and in using whom Cavour him- 
self was provoked into writing “ Se noi facessimo per noi 
quel che faciamo per l’ltalia, saremmo gran bricconi ” — 
if we did for ourselves what we do for Italy, we should 
be great blackguards. And that there were honourable 
and just men outside of Rome will sufficiently appear in 
the sequel to this veracious tale. 


THE END. 


LIST OF WORKS 

BY 

Mr. F. MARION CRAWFORD. 



IN UNIFORM CLOTH BINDING, $1 EACH. 


MACMILLAN & CO., 112 Fourth Avenue, New York. 


THE SARACINESCA SERIES 


DON ORSINO. 

A Continuation of “Saracinesca” and “Sant> Ilario.” 

“The third in a rather remarkable series of novels dealing- with 
three generations of the Saracinesca family, entitled respectively 
‘ Saracinesca,’ ‘ Sant’ Ilario ’ and ‘ Don Orsino,’ and these novels present 
an important study of Italian life, customs, and conditions during the 
present century. Each one of these novels is worthy of very careful 
reading and offers exceptional enjoyment in many ways, in the 
fascinating absorption of good fiction, in interest of faithful historic 
accuracy, and in charm of style. The ‘ new Italy ’ is strikingly 
revealed in ‘ Don Orsino.’ ” — Boston Budget. 

“We are inclined to regard the book as the most ingenious of all 
Mr. Crawford’s fictions. Certainly it is the best novel of the season.” 
— Evening Bulletin. 

SANT 5 ILARIO. A Sequel to “Saracinesca.” 

“ The author shows steady and constant improvement in his art. 

‘ Sant’ Ilario ’ is a continuation of the chronicles of the Saracinesca 
family. ... A singularly powerful and beautiful story. . . . Ad- 
mirably developed, with a naturalness beyond praise. ... It must 
rank with ‘ Greifenstein ’ as the best work the author has produced. 
It fulfils every requirement of artistic fiction. It brings out what is 
most impressive in human action, without owing any of its effective- 
ness to sensationalism or artifice. It is natural, fluent in evolution, 
accordant w r ith experience, graphic in description, penetrating in 
analysis, and absorbing in interest.” — New York Tribune. 

SARACINESCA. 

‘ ‘ His highest achievement, as yet, in the realms of fiction. The 
work has two distinct merits, either of which would serve to make 
it great, — that of telling a perfect story in a perfect way, and of giv- 
ing a graphic picture of Roman society in the last days of the Pope’s 
temporal power. ... The story is exquisitely told.” — Boston 
Traveller. 

“One of the most engrossing novels we have ever read.” — Boston 
Times. 


The three volumes in a box, $3.00. 
Half morocco, $8.00. Half calf, $7.50. 

2 


THE THREE FATES. 


“ The strength of the story lies in its portrayal of the aspirations, 
disciplinary efforts, trials and triumphs of the man who is a born 
writer, and who, by long and painful experiences, learns the good 
that is in him and the way in which to give it effectual expression. 
The analytical quality of the book is excellent, and the individuality 
of each one of the very dissimilar three fates is set forth in an entirely 
satisfactory manner. . . . Mr. Crawford has manifestly brought his 
best qualities as a student of human nature and his finest resources 
as a master of an original and picturesque style to bear upon this 
story. Taken for all in all it is one of the most pleasing of all his 
productions in fiction, and it affords a view of certain phases of Amer- 
ican, or perhaps we should say of New York, life that have not 
hitherto been treated with anything like the same adequacy and 
felicity . ” — Boston Beacon. 


THE WITCH OF PRAGUE. 

A Fantastic Tale. 

Illustrated by W. J. Hennessy. 

“ ‘ The Witch of Prague ’ is so remarkable a book as to be certain 
of as wide a popularity as any of its predecessors. The keenest inter- 
est for most readers will lie in its demonstration of the latest revela- 
tions of hypnotic science. ... But ‘ The Witch of Prague * is not 
merely a striking exposition of the far-reaching possibilities of a new 
science ; it is a romance of singular daring and power .” — London 
Academy. 

“ Mr. Crawford has written in many keys, but never in so strange 
a one as that which dominates ‘The Witch of Prague.’ . . . The 
artistic skill with which this extraordinary story is constructed and 
carried out is admirable and delightful. ... Mr. Crawford has 
scored a decided triumph, for the interest of the tale is sustained 
throughout. ... A very remarkable, powerful, and interesting 
story .” — New York Tribune. 

“But Mr. Crawford has not lost his oft-proved skill injholding 
his readers’ attention, and there are single scenes and passages in this 
book that rival in intensity anything he has ever written .” — Christian 
Union. 


A CIGARETTE-MAKER’S ROMANCE. 


“It is a touching romance, filled with scenes of great dramatic 
power/’ — Boston Commercial Bulletin. 

“It is full of life and movement, and is one of the best of Mr. 
Crawford’s books.” — Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. 

“The interest is unflagging throughout. Never has Mr. Craw- 
ford done more brilliant realistic work than here. But his realism 
is only the case and cover for those intense feelings which, placed 
under no matter what humble conditions, produce the most dramatic 
and the most tragic situations. . . . This is a secret of genius, to 
take the most coarse and common material, the meanest surround- 
ings, the most sordid material prospects, and out of the vehement 
passions which sometimes dominate all human beings to build up 
with these poor elements scenes and passages, the dramatic and emo- 
tional power of which at once enforce attention and awaken tfie pro- 
foundest interest.” — Neio York Tribune. 

“ In the ‘Cigarette-maker’s Romance ’ Mr. Crawford may be said 
to have given new evidence of the novel-maker’s art. . . . It is to be 
hoped that every one who reads Mr. Crawford’s tale will heed of the 
rare finish of his literary work, a model in its kind.” — The Critic. 


GREI FENSTEIN. 

“ ‘ Greifenstein ’ is a remarkable novel, and while it illustrates 
once more the author’s unusual versatility, it also shows that he has 
not been tempted into careless writing by the vogue of his earlier 
books. . . . There is nothing weak or small or frivolous in the story. 
The author deals with tremendous passions working at the height of 
their energy. His characters are stern, rugged, determined men and 
women, governed by powerful prejudices and iron conventions, types 
of a military people, in whom the sense of duty has been cultivated 
until it dominates all other motives, and in whom the principle of 
‘ noblesse oblige ’ is, so far as the aristocratic class is concerned, the 
fundamental rule of conduct. What such people may be capable of 
is startlingly shown.” — New York Tribune. 

“ . . . Another notable contribution to the literature of the day. It 
possesses originality in its conception and is a work of unusual abil- 
ity. Its interest is sustained to the close, and it is an advance even 
on the previous work of this talented author. Like all Mr. Craw- 
ford’s work this novel is crisp, clear, and vigorous, and will be read 
with a great deal of interest.” — New York Evening Telegram. 

4 


MR. ISAACS. 

A Tale of Modern India. 

“ Tlie writer first shows the hero in relation with the people of 
the East and then skilfully brings into connection the Anglo-Saxon 
race. It is in this showing of the different effects which the two 
classes of minds have upon the central figure of the story that one of 
its chief merits lies. The characters are original and one does not 
recognize any of the hackneyed personages who are so apt to be con- 
sidered indispensable to novelists, and which, dressed in one guise or 
another, are but the marionettes, which are all dominated by the 
same mind, moved by the same motive force. The men are all 
endowed with individualism and independent life and thought. . . . 
There is a strong tinge of mysticism about the book which is one of 
its greatest charms.” — Boston Transcript. 

“ No story of human experience that we have met with since 
‘ John Inglesant ’ has such an effect of transporting the reader into 
regions differing from his own. ‘ Mr. Isaacs ’ is the best novel that 
has ever laid its scenes in our Indian dominions.” — The Daily News , 
London. 

‘ ‘ This is a fine and noble story. It has freshness like a new and 
striking scene on which one has never looked before. It has character 
and individuality. It has meaning. It is lofty and uplifting, It is 
strongly, sweetly, tenderly written. It is in all respects an uncommon 
novel. ... In fine, ‘ Mr. Isaacs ’ is an acquaintance to be made. ” 

— The Literary World. 

DR. CLAUDIUS. 

A True Story. 

“There is a suggestion of strength, of a mastery of facts, of a 
fund of knowledge, that speaks well for future production. ... To 
be thoroughly enjoyed, however, this book must be read, as no mere 
cursory notice can give an adequate idea of its many interesting 
points and excellences, for without a doubt ‘ Dr. Claudius ’ is the 
most interesting book that has been published for many months, and 
richly deserves a high place in the public favor. ” — St. Louis Spectator. 

“ ‘ Dr. Claudius’ is surprisingly good, coming after a story of so 
much merit as ‘ Mr. Isaacs.’ The hero is a magnificent specimen of 
humanity, and sympathetic readers will be fascinated by his chival- 
rous wooing of the beautiful American countess.” — Boston Traveller. 

‘ ‘ To our mind it by no means belies the promises of its predecessor. 
The story an exceedingly improbable and romantic one, is told with 
much skill ; the characters are strongly marked without any suspi- 
cion of caricature, and the author’s ideas on social and political sub- 
jects are often brilliant and always striking. It is no exaggeration to 
sav that there is not a dull page in the book, which is peculiarly adapted 
for the recreation of student or thinker.”— Living Church. 

5 


WITH THE IMMORTALS. 


‘ ‘ Altogether an admirable piece of art worked in the spirit of a 
thorough artist. Every reader of cultivated tastes will find it a book 
prolific in entertainment of the most refined description, and to all 
such we commend it heartily.” — Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. 

‘ ‘ The strange central idea of the story could have occurred only 
to a writer whose mind was very sensitive to the current of modern 
thought and progress, while its execution, the setting it forth in 
proper literary clothing, could be successfully attempted only by one 
whose active literary ability should be fully equalled by his power of 
assimilative knowledge both literary and scientific, and no less by 
his courage and capacity for hard work. The book will be found to 
have a fascination entirely new for the habitual reader of novels. 
Indeed Mr. Crawford has succeeded in taking his readers quite above 
the ordinary plane of novel interest.” — Boston Advertiser. 

MARZIO’S CRUCIFIX. 

“We take the liberty of saying that this work belongs to the 
highest department of character-painting in words.” — Churchman. 

“ ‘Marzio’s Crucifix’ is another of those tales of modern Rome 
which show the author so much at his ease. A subtle compound of 
artistic feeling, avarice, malice, and criminal frenzy is this carver of 
silver chalices and crucifixes.” — The Times. 

“We have repeatedly had occasion to say that Mr. Crawford pos- 
sesses in an extraordinary degree the art of constructing a story. His 
sense of proportion is just, and his narrative flows along with ease 
and perspicuity. It is as if it could not have been written otherwise, 
so naturally does the story unfold itself, and so logical and consistent 
is the sequence of incident after incident. As a story ‘ Marzio’s Cru- 
cifix ’ is perfectly constructed.” — New York Commercial Advertiser. 

KHALED. 

A Story of Arabia. 

“Throughout the fascinating story runs the subtlest analysis, 
suggested rather than elaborately worked out, of human passion and 
motive, the building out and development of the character of the 
woman who becomes the hero’s wife and whose love he finally wins 
being an especially acute and highly-finished example of the" story- 
teller’s art. . . . That it is beautifully written and holds the interest 
of the reader, fanciful as it all is, to the very end, none who know 
the depth and artistic finish of Mr. Crawford’s work need be told. 

— The Chicago Times. 

‘ ‘ It abounds in stirring incidents and barbaric picturesqueness ; 
and the love struggle of the unloved Khaled is manly in its simplicity 
and noble in its ending. Mr. Crawford has done nothing better than, 
if he has done anything as good as, ‘ Khaled.’ ” — The Mail and Ex- 
press. 


ZOROASTER. 


“ The novel opens with a magnificent description of the march of 
the Babylonian court to Belshazzar’s feast, with the sudden and awful 
ending of the latter by the marvellous writing on the wall which 
Daniel is called to interpret. From that point the story moves on in a 
series of grand and dramatic scenes and incidents which will not fail 
to hold the reader fascinated and spell-bound to the end .” — Christian 
at Work. 

‘ ‘ The field of Mr. Crawford’s imagination appears to be un- 
bounded. ... In ? Zoroaster’ Mr. Crawford’s winged fancy ventures 
a daring flight. . . . Yet ‘ Zoroaster ’ is a novel rather than a drama. 
It is a drama in the force of its situations and in the poetry and 
dignity of its language ; but its men and women are not men and 
women of a play. By the naturalness of their conversation and be- 
havior they seem to live and lay hold of our human sympathy more 
than the same characters on a stage could possibly do .” — The 
Times. 

“As a matter of literary art solely, we doubt if Mr. Crawford has 
ever before given us better work than the description of Belshazzar’s 
feast with which the story begins, or the death-scene with which it 
closes .” — The Christian Union. 


A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 

“It is a pleasure to have anything so perfect of its kind as this 
brief and vivid story. ... It is doubly a success, being full of human 
sympathy, as well as thoroughly artistic in its nice balancing of the 
unusual with the commonplace, the clever juxtaposition of innocence 
and guilt, comedy and tragedy, simplicity and intrigue.” — Critic. 

“ Of all the stories Mr. Crawford has written, it is the most dra- 
matic, the most finished, the most compact. . . . The taste which is 
left in one’s mind after the story is finished is exactly what the fine 
reader desires and the novelist intends. ... It has no defects. It is. 
neither trifling nor trivial. It is a work of art. It is perfect.” 

—Boston Beacon. 

“ The plot is unfolded and the character-drawing given with the 
well-known artistic skill of Mr. Crawford, and to those who have not 
before read it this story will furnish a rare literary treat. ” 

— Home Journal 


7 


Macmillan & Co. take pleasure in announcing that they 
have made arrangements to add the following volumes 
(with the author’s latest revisions) to their uniform edition 
of the Works of Mr. F. Marion Crawford, thereby en- 
abling them to issue a complete edition of all his writings. 

TO LEEWARD. (January, 1893 .) 

New Edition, revised. 

A ROMAN SINGER. (February.) 

New Edition, revised and corrected. 

PAUL PATOFF. (March.) 

New Edition, revised. 


AN AMERICAN POLITICIAN. (April.) 

New Edition, revised and partly rewritten. 


IN THE PRESS : 

CHILDREN OF THE KING. (February 
A Tale of Southern Italy. 


MACMILLAN & CO., 

112 FOURTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 





